Quiet morning moments on a boat bestow a tranquil richness
Issue 149: March/April 2023
Is there any doubt that the best place to be in the world is on a boat first thing in the morning?
Listen: For a few seraphic moments all the world, but for the drift of the tide, is still. My eyes open with the gull’s first cry and I clumsily crawl out from the cramped aft cabin, careful not to hit my head on the low fiberglass overhead. In the saloon I can almost believe that I’m on land; motion is barely detectable, just enough to feel the slightest swing of the rode — but the clicking claws of shrimp around the hull betray the ruse.
On deck the air is heavy and dew covers all exposed surfaces. I extinguish and stow the anchor light; the waning moon smiles down from a rose-petal pink and lavender sky. The glassy water undulates slowly.
Cockpit spiders, knowing that light converts them from predator to prey, abandon their carefully constructed cobwebs to seek solace within the many confines of the bimini. Our anchorage, which had been so boisterous last evening, is now the picture of equanimity — as if it too needed to slumber and is just waking up. Something nips at the water’s surface; a small fish jumps.
Private conversations are telegraphed from the distant shore: A baby cries, a dog barks, Amtrak rumbles. Propfouling crab pots, which can be so hard to spot underway, are now cleanly laid out in a long dotted line, patiently waiting for their owner to arrive. Do the inmates know they are eating their last meal?
The water ripples with the movement of dolphins and manatees, two noncompeting mammals who live in harmony, searching the river for a meal.
The sun cracks the treetops; its warming rays kiss the Windex and slide slowly, steadily, down the mast. When they strike the deck, the boat comes to life: The vent fan spins, the solar panel clicks, a faint evaporative mist forms above the coach roof. The crew, too, comes to life and I hear the pump of the head and the clank of the coffeepot. Soon a delicious smell will waft up from the galley. The fresh air out here magnifies hunger pangs, and my stomach growls with anticipation.
The wake of a distant tug bumps the hull and the halyards rattle. The wake took almost five minutes to reach us, and the tug is almost out of sight. Taking full advantage of the ground effect, a line of hungry brown pelicans silently glides by in perfect symmetrical reflection.
The still, cool of the morning belies the forecast of a hot and humid day: Thunderstorms are coming. Recumbent in the cockpit, I consider the day’s options and review the chart. Can we make the mouth of the St. Johns before the storms hit? How long will we have this favorable tide?
Cat’s-paws frost the river upstream of us. What a break — we are upwind of today’s destination. I’ll set the mainsail and pull the anchor, eschewing the engine, which has no place in a moment like this. The sails will fill, just enough to move us without apparent motion. In this way, I will surprise late risers when they stumble on deck to find that we are far from our anchorage and making way.
Soon our little floating world will be a beehive of activity: a meal, a destination, a course, a repair. It’s going to be a busy day with a hundred sundry tasks to perform, but for a few halcyon moments, there is the morning and its special peace.
Robert Beringer is a Florida-based freelance marine journalist and photographer and a member of Boating Writers International. He learned to sail on the Great Lakes in a Hobie 16, holds a USCG 100-ton master’s license, and has logged more than 28,000 miles under sail. His first book, Water Power!, a collection of marine short stories, is available at Barnes & Noble.
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