February 25, 2005
Three sheets
'3' - sheets...
The wind hit at dawn like a cold slap in the face. The plastic rain bucket had been filling in the grey drizzle, and I drank it in. I trimmed the sails, and set a coarse for due west, tacking towards the sun's setting line. People always say "Go west, young man!". And so I did. I can sail this boat better than anyone. With a bit of determination, she should take me quite far in a week.
Her black hull is slicing through the dark blue-black troughs and white foam crests, like sharpened skates smoothing broken ice. The spray of the bow, and the brightening shards of new but still hazy light, turn the hull to a reflective silver. I'm shining again. The sea is opaque in its tossed frenzy. The tan sails are full, bloated, pushing me on. Right on point, now. Keep my eyes straight ahead, keep the sails trimmed. Maybe just a moment for some hot instant coffee. I can still remember the aroma, sweet fresh-brewed hazelnut hot coffee, following me into a new day, long ago. No, no time now. Just enough to mix some cold instant crystals in a tin cup, grab a piece of fish jerky, and maybe a second to dry the spray out of my eyes. There'll be time for hot coffee sooner or later.
I'm running fast now, the backing wind almost astern. I'm pushing it. The cold metallic mast is shivering, groaning from the strain. Behind me, the sky darkens with violent energy. The diffuse foggy greys have grown into walls of ominous black, bearing down in chase. Its coming on fast. I trim the winds again, and pick up a knot or two. She's bucking, but she'll hold together. When the hell did this happen? I am still on course, dead on. I won't loose her again. I can still make out the sun, and I'm staring it down. I can make it, I can do this, I can reach the sun. A little faster, a little faster. Just stay on track.
That nagging feeling comes again like the approaching gale. That damn nagging. It turns me around. Fuck, its got me, I cannot out run it. The sails are soaked to deep dark brown, the hull is blackened in the malestrom. Even the whipping white froth is darkened. I can't tell ship from sea. Where the hell am I? No choice. Listen. Listen to her screaming. Listen to her rage. The sea is telling me to hove to, rest the bow into the wind. I pull in a few reefs - too much sail out. Batten the hatches. Throw the storm anchor to slow the slides. Strap in the safety harness.
Follow the compass. Stay out of my way. I'm the captain. Let's ride.
Posted by Ocean at 06:09 AM | Permalink | | Comments (0)