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Going Nowhere Slowly

Posted 6 months, 3 days ago

Going Nowhere Slowly
The calls were made, the crew is ready, the last minute problem, “damn that kill switch”, is attended too with a little oil going a long way. Now safe in the knowledge that once you’ve started the donk, once the sails are set you can actually silence the beast and slowly succumb to the silence of the sea. The crackle of Port control allows you to be where you want to be, “out there!” Sails set and once again Struan does what she was born to do, wooed by the wind and caressed by the sea she heels ever so slightly and sails. With the easterly still in its infancy, the boat, nudges you to a direction, “so where are we going?” “over there!” the reply and the hand describes an arc where between sky and sea your destination lies. Minds wander as hand make small adjustments to the boats yearnings as she responds to wind and sea, cares fall away, thoughts find homes in you head, the sun warms you to relax. The murmur and talk with comments and laughter pertaining to nothing while yarns are spun and retold. Boats are identified or just remain a mystery until they’re closer. Somehow at a gentle 4 knots there is no place for anger, coffee and bread rolls come up from below and somehow taste better then when had at home. The horizon comes closer while the shore falls away, lost in the haze of the city. “Shall we go with the spinnaker?” Question asked, decided upon and there is the activity of getting ready, lines are run halyards are tugged and pulled. Struan bears off and up she goes, filled sails are furled, the main eased and the wind appears to die? all is still, except for the motion of the boat, the wake disappearing to vanishing point and the gurgling 4.5 knots makes down the hull. With the only sound being, the playing of the sheet, as the trimmer coaxes the big bag to fly. We’ve turned at our point out there! land’s getting bigger, passing fishing boats and the bell buoy, soon! all too soon! “I think we should dump the spinnaker”. Feverish activity in the cockpit, on the foredeck and the big sail disappears as if swallowed by the forepeak hatch. Once again port control welcomes us to Port Elizabeth, sails are furled, and the motor coughs under water in the props wash. Struan nose’s into her berth and once again restrained to land, tugging to the call of the sea. Banter and cold beers as to “where did you go?” “We went there” once again the hand indicates that point where the sea meets the sky. Knowing next week we’ll be going there again! The art of going nowhere slowly is born. Derek Bouwer Full Story »

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