When I posted my introduction, someone asked to hear more about my sailing exploits, preME. So here's a stab at that idea. A bit of purple prose, way off-topic!
North by east we fly, two days out of Gibralter, with the High Sierras silhouetted in the sunset far off the port beam. Seas wide and rolling, wind at force 6, right up the chuff. The big stripey roller genoa, poled out to starboard, the mizzen staysail hung upside down on the inner forestay, stabilised and tamed by using the main boom end (otherwise unemployed) as a sheet lead.
Stuck to the helm, feeling, reading, living with the ship, anticipating the variation in rudder required to keep her steady, steady as she goes. A trance like state peppered by discipline, every five minutes to scan the horizon. Ships show up sudden, ahead and behind, an ever present potential danger. And always watching the water ahead for floats that are clues to nets spread under the waves, ready to ensnare the unwary, in this fish scoured water.
A swooping, hypnotic motion in the silken sea, warmed through and through by the Spanish summer's August heat. A tweak on a line here, a checking of the horizon there. No ships to be seen, just the icing of snow still extant on the mountain tops, now brilliantly lit by the quickly setting sun. Look all round, a hand (or a foot) on the wheel.
And dark. Sudden as it can only be in lower latitudes. The western sky dims, the eastern horizon grows velvet black, the lights on the little ship glim and shine in the water, reflections joining the phosphorescence, the sea echoing the jeweled sky, stars like diamonds studding the firmament with our tricolour on top of the mast the brightest star of all, inscribing arcs against Altair above.
A blow, a watery breath announces company. A pilot whale, not 20' long, smaller than us, a youngster. Swimming along, maybe thinking we are his mom. Mum. No. We are wooden, not flesh, though the ship has soul, and all sailors know that love that ties them to the ship and the sea.
"Cup of tea" says the off watch crew. coming up to take over
"I'll have a beer, helps get me to sleep"
"What's happening?" as he blows on his tea, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and scanning the scene
"You missed the whale. Its a beautiful night. Nothing in site, log's up to date. Might sail better if we set the inner staysail sheeted hard amidships"
"Mmm. I'll think about it"
"If you want it done, let's do it now" And we did, easier with two, and the helm to mind.
The last task before rolling into my grateful bunk, to sip a stubbie and sleep till midnight. Then I'll have the world and the ship all to myself again.
North by east we fly, two days out of Gibralter, with the High Sierras silhouetted in the sunset far off the port beam. Seas wide and rolling, wind at force 6, right up the chuff. The big stripey roller genoa, poled out to starboard, the mizzen staysail hung upside down on the inner forestay, stabilised and tamed by using the main boom end (otherwise unemployed) as a sheet lead.
Stuck to the helm, feeling, reading, living with the ship, anticipating the variation in rudder required to keep her steady, steady as she goes. A trance like state peppered by discipline, every five minutes to scan the horizon. Ships show up sudden, ahead and behind, an ever present potential danger. And always watching the water ahead for floats that are clues to nets spread under the waves, ready to ensnare the unwary, in this fish scoured water.
A swooping, hypnotic motion in the silken sea, warmed through and through by the Spanish summer's August heat. A tweak on a line here, a checking of the horizon there. No ships to be seen, just the icing of snow still extant on the mountain tops, now brilliantly lit by the quickly setting sun. Look all round, a hand (or a foot) on the wheel.
And dark. Sudden as it can only be in lower latitudes. The western sky dims, the eastern horizon grows velvet black, the lights on the little ship glim and shine in the water, reflections joining the phosphorescence, the sea echoing the jeweled sky, stars like diamonds studding the firmament with our tricolour on top of the mast the brightest star of all, inscribing arcs against Altair above.
A blow, a watery breath announces company. A pilot whale, not 20' long, smaller than us, a youngster. Swimming along, maybe thinking we are his mom. Mum. No. We are wooden, not flesh, though the ship has soul, and all sailors know that love that ties them to the ship and the sea.
"Cup of tea" says the off watch crew. coming up to take over
"I'll have a beer, helps get me to sleep"
"What's happening?" as he blows on his tea, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and scanning the scene
"You missed the whale. Its a beautiful night. Nothing in site, log's up to date. Might sail better if we set the inner staysail sheeted hard amidships"
"Mmm. I'll think about it"
"If you want it done, let's do it now" And we did, easier with two, and the helm to mind.
The last task before rolling into my grateful bunk, to sip a stubbie and sleep till midnight. Then I'll have the world and the ship all to myself again.