Noah leans over to gauge the distance that Song of the Wind must glide before she turns sharp into her slip. It is a controlled movement. His raised eyebrow coincides with a quick turn of the wheel. Song of the Wind moves gracefully at slightly over a knot with a foot under her keel. She moves from the first piling and presents her hind quarters to the far post. My job is to grab the line which is just within reach. We pivot on the stern cleat, and we are back home.
He is a taller young man of fifteen now but the the boy still remains. Noah was six when we first met Song of the Wind. When she would heel, Noah would scream. He sat at the head of the steps, wide eyed and looking astern, wishing for the end of this folly. He sat patiently through all of the lessons, and made practical comments such as “why do you not tip over completely when we heel?” Looking at the strong keels of boats on dry dock did not assuage his inner equilibrium when we went out in strong winds.
Noah is now the captain and has a better sense of the water than me. He is comfortable and is at ease when encountering problems on the Bay. Whereas I have to use my left brain to analyze and equate and muddle through, he seizes up the situation quickly with his right brain and thus has the use of his full faculties for other tasks. So it seems to me, as I look over my glasses with my elongated eyeballs, graying hair cascading over wrinkled brow...
A few weeks ago, we ventured to the St Mary’s River during Spring Break. Last year, we had witnessed the ravages of a tornado in Deltaville and sailed with his friend Cameron. Cameron lost his house but not his dog. He is a resilient waterman. This year, we went forth man to man into heavy and sustained winds. Small craft advisory for three days was mana for our souls. We went North to the Potomac.
Flying our jib with a tiny main was our best strategy. Song of the Wind seemed carefully tamed as she galloped over the wind capped waves. Too much jib, she groaned, and too much main made a mess of the cabin. She quickly came to when we depowered, and we felt safe in the cockpit with our foul gear and old life vests.
At night, we marveled that we can make Thai vegetables and watch the evening news. Ben and Jerry’s were ours for taking as it was mano a mano. The stark windy bay was just a memory when we went below like troglodytes.
I look at our old pictures and am reminded of the old woman in Fanny and Alexander. In the long winter night, during the rain, she is counting her children amongst the pictures that are spread on the kitchen table. The table that gave sustenance and life now recounting her memories. She is alone, it is a white light, and it is coming down in doves.
We pass though our time with a little wave and try not to make big wakes behind us. Our footprints are somewhat sustainable. We want our lives to be meaningful but come to understand that only we can make sense of our lives. Our treasures are with us in the here and now. We look backwards with some longing but the future also beckons. Sailing interweaves these desires and thoughts in the present. We are loking backwards at our wakes but gazing ahead to the next mark. We are living in the passage.
I think of Noah at six and now he is fifteen and a half. Miju, Ben, Mark and Reuben are really out of the harbor and venturing into the world. They are making their own passages. We have a common bond as we all grew up together. A small speck on the water we appear to the jet fighters above us near the waters off the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. Together and alone we feel connected to each other even when apart. These are the passages that Song of the Wind has given us.
