Serenity
Harmony on the Hull
A solo sailor’s lullaby
“Where words cease, music begins; where the sea ends, the sky begins; and at the point where they converge, the soul takes flight.” — Kahlil Gibran
You sailed hard today to make this port. You were alone out there — not a single boat seen after leaving home. Everyone else stayed in, but you knew your boat and what she could take.
Intuition told you to start with the small jib. As you reached open water, winds increased, the usually calm waters whipping into a frenzy. You donned your foul weather gear and tucked a reef in the main. Once reefed, the boat felt right.
You rode out most of the puffs, edging closer to the wind and enjoying the exhilaration as you heeled a little more and powered through. You let the main out on the larger gusts to spill some wind. The boat was under control but your smile was not.
The waves grew, spray coming over the bow as it bucked and dove into the crests. Your foulies were drenched, but that was what they were made for.
You loved the challenge of eking out every knot, sliding up and down the wave crests to keep the boat from stalling, flying on the blasts of air like one of the gulls, all the while listening to the songs of the rigging as it reached its harmonic frequencies.
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The northeast winds eased as the sun set, and the anchorage was quiet as you entered the little harbor and dropped the hook — just you and the trees and the occasional call of an osprey on the hunt.
As you crawled into the warmth of your sleeping bag, the breeze through the open hatch wafted over your forehead. Smells of a marshy shoreline brought back childhood memories of fishing on a small pond.
You listened to the soft chatter of bullfrogs and katydids, and you watched as the sky darkened and the clouds moved on, revealing a million pinpricks of light. You spent time picking out the constellations that slowly turned overhead as the boat swung on its anchor-rode, your eyelids growing heavy. The small waves rocked you to sleep.
Sometime during the night, the wind shifted into the southeast and freshened. You awoke to the sounds of water sluicing over the hull, halyards slapping against the mast, and the rudder struggling against its bonds. You got up to check the anchor. It was holding fine. You tightened the halyards and ensured everything was fastened down.
You returned to your bunk, but a little later, the wind found a new victim in the rigging, and the waves were antagonizing the bucking hull. Was that a drum major taking practice on your foredeck and preventing you from returning to that pleasant dream?
Or was it nature? The same nature that billowed your sails this afternoon and made you grin like a kid as the boat picked up a couple of knots and you leaned out a little more against the increased heel?
She didn’t warn you she might loosen something new on your foredeck. But then she didn’t warn you about the bullfrogs and katydids either, did she? So, lie back and let the concerto wash over you. You’ve earned it.
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