Sailing Alone Around the Room

No, this is not a review of Billy Collin’s book of no-longer new and collected poems. Though you should read it. There’s a reason he’s one of the only poets in America who makes six figures.

No, this is an exultation. This is a celebration of muscles sore from keeping rudders straight while sails curve, their gluttonous bellies full of a feast of wind. This is the joy of flying across the water without the thrum of an engine, the visceral connection of tramp, twin scimitar hulls and the sight of the waves speeding by beneath you viewed through taut laces. 

This is the satisfaction of a trio of goals checked off and settled contently into accomplishments.

4 wheel drive vehicle? Check. Ford Escape.
Giant breed puppy purchased and raised? Check. Mira is a wonderful dog, everyone loves her.
Sailboat? Check. 16′ Hobie Catamaran. Mast stepped, boat tied down on a beach on Lake Pend Oreille. Sailed.

I have yet to name her, but I’m thinking something along the lines of Hep Cat. 

I’m going to have a great sailor’s tan and some strong arm muscles by the end of the summer. That thing takes some work. I love it. 

It’s been ages since I sailed and I’m relearning everything with no mentor but the wind itself. I love the language of sailing. Forestay, shrouds, jib, sheets, boom, close hauled, beam reach, broad reach, in irons. It may seem silly, but in some ways the jargon reminds me of cribbage. Nobs. 

Her main sail is white, her jib turquoise, her hulls yellow for the moment. They need a new gel coat and we’ll see if they remain yellow when the time comes. I’m not the biggest fan of the color, but for the moment, I couldn’t care less. It doesn’t matter what color the pontoons are when they’re in the water and the wind is in your face. Regardless of her hues, she’s beautiful. 

Anyone want to go sailing? -smile-