ignoring our hunger for the breeze that will not come
Aground on a nameless bar we had lunch
and kedged against tide and breeze
How often does a man get to use an anchor
to set himself free?
Flying low, twenty or more flamingos
passed close at sunset
for a moment
We heard nothing but their wings
Starshine through the companionway
wavelets lapping at the hull
A halyard lazily slapping the mast
the boat, the sky, the sea and I
drift off from the day and into the night
Steel grey dawn slips in
Damp and cool and calm
Flamingos tiptoe through the flats
Snacking on morsels in the mangroves
I cock my head at a sound in the air
The aggregated droning of the cars, boats, and Harleys
Coursing down US 1
invisible at the horizon
The locomotive rumbling of the unstoppable
Idiot Express
There's pleasure in talking
but comfort in silence
The cabin is warm in the glow of the lamp
Christmas night on the boat
No tree or tinsel required
OK, so I'm no Pablo Neruda, but I had to give it a shot. Dad and I spent four days and three nights sailing, drifting, and putt-putting across Florida Bay in Reprieve, and neither of us brought a camera to capture the scene. The breeze, which was pretty strong when we set out, gradually diminished that day and the next, and when we got up on the second morning it was absolutely dead calm. Not a molecule of air stirring, and not a ripple on the surface of the water, either. It looked like somebody had replaced the sea with a mirror while we were sleeping. We made coffee (diner style, perked in a pot on the stove and damn good) and sat in the cockpit taking in the scene and trying to wake up. I bitched about not having a camera, and asked Zeke how we'd ever be able to describe the scene to anyone. How can I describe the mast and rigging silhouetted black against the bright night sky, or the dinghy faithfully bobbing along behind us on her painter? He said that would be a poet's job, which is of course absolutely right on target. Hopefully he'll be able to do a better job than I have so far.
There are so many other things to describe, also, that I don't know where to begin. The weather ranged from flat calm to good 'n gusty, from bright sun to thick fog to rainshowers. We had good food and cold beer (but not quite enough of it). We ran aground and got to kedge ourselves off by ferrying the anchor out in the dinghy and pulling the boat toward it. We sailed back into the anchorage in a squall, missed the mooring bouy a few times, and fouled the anchor lines on the keel. We saw pink flamingos in the wild, and ospreys, cranes, gulls and egrets. A squadron of flamingos flew so close past the boat we could hear the sound of their wings pushing through the air. We had spam steaks, ravioli, and oreos. We executed flawlessly synchronized gybes and got the anchor set the first time every time. We had an encounter with Nervous Ned the Water Patrolman. We nearly swamped the dinghy, twice. We saw the Milky Way and Venus and the Dog star. And we sailed! Glorious reaches that went for miles, close-hauled tacks with the rail kissing the bay, and calm runs in the failing breeze. My powers of description are useless to describe the feeling of ghosting along under a gentle breeze for miles in water four feet deep, watching the shadow of the boat skate across the sand.
I took Zeke back to the airport in Miami yesterday, and he caught up with Judy in B'ham on her way back to the farm from California. I had really hoped that she could have been here, too, for this trip, but they'll both be back in February. I took another day of vacation time today and spent the morning talking to the folks up at Manatee Bay Marina about getting an appointment to have Reprieve hauled out for a fresh coat of paint on the bottom and hull and a few other little projects. She's a great boat, but she's also nearly forty years old, and there are lots of things that I want to fix, maintain, and update. They're booked until mid February, so the timing will be great. After getting that done, I spent the rest of the day on the boat at anchor in Pirate's Cove, just enjoying the day and puttering around. There is no more calming and satisfying experience for me than spending a bright, sunny day soaking up the warm December breezes lounging on the cockpit cusions with a good book and a cold beer.
That whole idea of calming down is one that has presented itself to me in various ways recently. The Christmas sailing experience was one way. When the wind disappeared we had to accept that we coudn't be in a hurry, and getting anxious about "getting somewhere" was pointless. I had a similar experience at Publix last week when the lady in line in front of me announced, just as she put the last of the thousand items from her cart onto the belt, that she had forgotten something and was just going to have to go get it. She wandered off without giving any hint that she was going to try to make it quick. I wasn't in a particular hurry, but dadgummit if I didn't start getting antsy. After a few minutes of this the cashier, still only about a quarter of the way into scanning the lady's groceries, said to "calm yo ass down white boy, ain't gonna make that old woman come back no faster if you act the fool or not, and besides that if she ain't back time I get done scannin' and baggin' all these groceries I'll close her out take care of you". Well. 'Nuff said there, huh?
So calm yo ass down, white boy. I thought of that tonight when I got the first pangs of not panic really but certainly anxiety about getting back to work and getting into whatever crises or melodramas played themselves out while I was gone the last week.
Whatever it is it won't be the end of the world, and sooner or later I'll have enough loot stashed away to take a mental health break, go sailing for a few months, and figure out what's next.
In the meantime, the memories of this Florida Bay Christmas are something I can reach back to whenever I need help calming my ass down when things get tense.
Merry co-opted pagan winter solstice celebration, everybody.
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