Just like a sailor heading into the seas
The warm water swells break at my bow as the 'Lady' struggles in the wild Lake Huron weather. Her sleek frame rising on each crest, only to dive
swiftly down on the black streaked backs of four meter waves, then heave and roll, only to bury her nose in the next mountainous wall. Pushed by
gusting crosswind and gravity, the frothy spray cascades across her as I steadfastly head into the teeth of that brooding storm, bound on a
treacherous zig zag course.
There's a gale blowin' in my face
The air is filled with water and yet tastes fresh and sweet on my face. I let it run down my throat with pleasure as I stood there, jammed to the
wheel, loving the thrill of the scene. Billowing wet sails snapped and taut ropes howled with a low moaning pitch. Then, within the dark grey
maelstrom ahead, a seagull suddenly whisked across the sky with an incredible speed, impervious to the slashing rains. I smiled at its alacrity, at
home in such wildness, playing with the eddies and currents of the air like a wild child.
The high winds scare me but I need the breeze
Catching the angle on each wave was life and death. Up she rose, prow high, aiming for the clouds, while the transom buried itself to the scuppers.
Water swirled at my feet, slicking the deck, and I would brace myself against the sucking weight of the water. Suddenly, she would ride atop the
crest, and, seesaw-style, would raise me high above the wave as she nosed herself down the backslope. This is when the capricious winds can catch her,
and drive her from her course. The keel keeps her steady by luck and love, because for a moment, the rudder is dripping behind me, water streaming off
its sleek blade form.
And I can't head for any other place
I could turn between waves, and ride the swells like a surfer, going fast in the turbulent waters, sure and trim and carefree on a backing wind. But,
no, I need to feel the bite of nature's wrath. I need to set my course against the gale, to test my mettle and my Lady, to 'feel' my lovely boat, so
sleek and feminine, as she rode the towering waves, pushing her gorgeous form, crashing down with such ominous hollow booms between the crests.
Life would be so easy on the other tack
Yes, but so is home and a couch...and what kind of living is that for a sailor?
Bolded words are yrics from 'A Little is Enough' by Peter Townsend on the vinyl LP recording 'Empty Glass' (Atco records)
16/4/11 by masqua because: (no reason given)