A sailor of sensitivity perches on the cusp of maturation
Issue 64 : Jan/Feb 2009
One comes to wonder, after a careful while, whence it all comes; whither it all may tend; whether there be any sense, design, or relevance in all or any of it. I know that time is something we only borrow piecemeal; that to tear off huge gobbets of it and expect to sate ourselves is mindless gluttony. I want to savor the bits, the morsels, the spangled bioluminescence left in the wake of those of you with agendas.
I have just returned from sailing some 1,500 nautical miles, having made a passage as straight and constrained as wind and sea might allow. (Steer small; keep the edge of your spinnaker taut; don’t extravagate past the margin of expedition; tune your weather backstay until the mast is arched to give you minimum draft. There. I think we’ve gained another tenth of a knot. Maybe two.)
Hour after hour. Day after day. Through crystal nights when the stars proved too, too many and through nights of driving rain. And when our hull speed dropped to under 3 knots, we started the motor.
(At only half throttle, we should be able to maintain 4 knots and consume but a third of a gallon of diesel per hour, per hour, per hour. But remember: we have but diesel enough to take us 300 miles.)
Every day a century plus
We made two runs of about a week: Spanish Town, Virgin Gorda to St. George’s Harbor, Bermuda; thence, two days later, to Casco Bay, Maine, just within Portland Head. We attempted never to have a day’s run of less than 100 miles. Our best run, our first day out, was 150. We allowed eight days to reach St. George’s; we did it in seven and a half. We allowed seven days to reach Casco Bay, and made it to our mooring in six and a half. Were we efficient, concerted, productive, and copacetic — or what?
Yes — or what?
I’ve determined I don’t care to spend my sailing by racing the clock, the wind, the tide, the season. I want to proceed in a desultory, relaxed, serendipitous fashion. Rather than spoon my cereal into my ear while bracing my leg against the leeward portlight, I want to sit at a level table while anchored in some by-water; to sip my French roast; to write in my journal; to delight in the passage of Earth through Heaven without regretting the 14 nautical miles I might have made good had I raised my sails with the budding light and fled the wind instead of waiting until my dishes were washed.
So here I perch on the cusp of maturation, keeping my body in reserve for the best that is yet to come. I have no running backstays to adjust, no spinnaker to demand untoward vigilance. I do know how to tweak my traveler, get more lift from my jib, and make my morning last until the afternoon. More than this I cannot be responsible for, nor wish to be, for morning and afternoon and night are entities that need to be savored separately and garnished with that appreciation that comes of taking small bites.
A nautical raconteur
I look forward to being on the water again as a waterman, not a racer; as a raconteur, not as a logger of miles; as a connoisseur of the dip and pivot of pinion, slant of sunbeam, gurgle of ebb, and decant of foam from vintage hull through the water.
To those of you who must be up at three to take the wheel, I wish you well. There is no thrill like the molten sea streaming astern at 7 knots as you lean beneath constellations in the hugeness of tropic nights. When I feel such urge, I shall cast off MoonWind’s pendant and follow the plunging moon toward the far-fringed dawn.
But morning will find me anchored in some still harbor. I shall breakfast with birds; hear the pilings creak; turn to the breeze that mated the upwind roses. I shall watch the steeds of Helios ascend the steep, steep sky; embrace the day; remember to breathe; await the turn of the tide.
Matthew Goldman grew up in Hadlyme, Connecticut, by the lovely Connecticut River. Once having gotten his feet wet, he demanded a boat and, ever since, has been adrift. His recent book, The Journals of Constant Waterman, is a collection of nautical memoirs. He repairs boats to support his sailing habit, and sails his Chris-Craft Pawnee, MoonWind, to support his writing habit.
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