A chilly morning at the edge of autumn foretells the longer journey.
Issue 131: March/April 2020
Sunlight streaming through the port-side window into my V-berth burns my eyes open. Last night’s howling wind has abated, and Affinity rocks gently on her tether. I release my vise grip on my sleeping bag collar and feel cold air intrude upon my face and neck. There really is no place to go and nothing to do, yet I feel an urgency to rise.
As I unzip and emerge from the quilted warmth, the cold stings my face. Even wearing fleece, I’m all goosebumps as I crawl out of the berth and patter barefoot across the icy sole to the galley; a frigid journey to hot coffee. I break up the sheet ice in the water jug before I fill the kettle and fire up the stove. After priming the burner, my hands welcome the warmth of the blue kerosene flame.
Through the scratched Plexiglas companionway, I see that the sun has disappeared behind clouds, portending a troublesome day. It must be eight or nine o’clock. I don’t know. My watch is back in the V-berth, and I realize I don’t care to check it. I realize I can’t feel my feet.
I sit on the narrow step to the cockpit and try to rub some life into them. Just under the table are my deck shoes where I kicked them off last night. Socks are up forward, but that’s still too far away. I sink down to the sole and slide my shoes on my feet. Then the kettle whistles at me.
Four large tablespoons of coffee grinds go into the strainer straddling the mouth of the large mug. When I pour the steaming water over the top, the aroma hits, sharp and clarifying. The worst is over. This day will begin.
In the cockpit with my caldron of inspiration, I take in the small, sheltered cove of the Bay of Quinte. The shore is ablaze in color: red, yellow, brown, and green sooth and excite at the same time. Small birds chatter among the trees, seeming to gather a collective courage for the flight south. The water laps gently on the hull and brushes the shore, whispering the hopes of a million voyages and the hearts of a billion seekers.
We are very much alone, Affinity and I. Gratefully so, for days now. But, like the birds, I must make plans, summon the courage to either sail to Picton to seek a cradle for a winter in a strange shipyard, or sail out into open water for two days against a strong westerly, down the lake to our home port. Last night’s marine radio crackled with the promise of snow squalls. In the end, I hate the thought of leaving Affinity in a strange yard more than the thought of braving the weather to get her home.
I know that if I get a quick start, we could miss some of the weather. I toss the last swig of coffee and grinds overboard and go below. In the head, I glance at the mirror, lean in to study a stranger. It’s a leathery old man with wrinkled eyes, tousled morning hair, and sharp, gray stubble on sagging cheeks.
“Who are you, old man? Where did you come from? Where are you going?”
I smile a grizzled smile and speak aloud: “I’m going to the same place we’re all going. And getting there isn’t half the fun…it’s really all there is.”
D.B. Davies is a sailor and writer who is a frequent contributor to Good Old Boat. He sails Affinity, his 1974 Grampian 30, around Lake Ontario. After extensively researching the men and sailing schooners of Canada’s Maritime provinces, Don wrote a dramatic screenplay about the famous Bluenose and her skipper, Angus Walters. You can find out more at thebluenosemovie.com.
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