Issue 8 : Sept/Oct 1999
The sparfly wanders aimlessly, tracing lazy arcs in the sky as Mystic sits quietly under a curtain of gray. The slate-colored sky paints the water in metallic shades which undulate expectantly, but no breath of wind paints the ripples of an approaching zephyr. Becalmed.
We have no engine in the boat right now to ensure progress toward our destination. Jerry’s thoughts turn elsewhere once I announce that I’m happy to stay in the cockpit moving Mystic forward microinch by nautical microinch as we slip slowly between zephyrs and calms. Jerry goes below to crawl about in the empty space where our new engine will go. He’s engrossed in measuring, scheming, dreaming. I’m alone with my thoughts.
I become transfixed by the science of slow motion. When a zephry fills in, I watch as the merest hint of a wake traces three narrow waves from midship and leaves them astern in a broad “V.” I watch fascinated as bits of pollen on the surface of the water drift lazily by. Never have I studied the shoreline in such detail. Never have I moved (if, in fact, we’re moving at all right now) by the shore so slowly. The zephyr fills in, and the bow wake begins to murmur, humming quietly to itself.
I have no digital reminder of how slow this burst of speed really is, since we’re saving energy this weekend. The engine is not here to top off the battery, so on this four-day weekend, we are consuming what energy we have carefully, and the knotmeter shows a blank screen.
Occasionally Jerry appears in the companionway or disappears into a cockpit lazarette. Eventually he asks whether I wouldn’t like to put up the 170 genoa, as I’m ghosting along under main alone. But I fear a flopping jib could spoil the ambiance of a nearly motionless day.
The clouds slowly clear, moving on to the east and leaving a blue sky to paint the water in new hues. In the distance a forest of scraggly pines looks like a marina full of masts, but we’re alone here with a couple of loons and a multitude of unseen bears in the woods beyond the shore.
We’re on a floating island of our own. I disappear below briefly to start a sheet of cookies. We have fuel for the stove, water in the tanks, food in the galley, and a bunk for the night. I sit, quietly tweaking the sail occasionally. I’m warm, content, rested, comfortable. A loon calls, and his wail echoes from the opposite shore. We’re in no hurry to go somewhere. We’ve already arrived.
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