Turning back

Red and numb, my fingers work the blue nylon into loops and knots, rain drizzling on to the deck, the furled sails, the smile on my face. I am wet and cold and I can't feel my fingers but we are moving towards the ocean. The outgoing tide ushers us towards the openness and I can feel it tugging at my chest: the salty nests of seaweed sliding past our bow, the breaching of whales punctuating commas on the horizon, the swallows who will appear and rest on deck before reassessing their course.

The clouds cease their crying as we stow lines and fenders, as we yip and hurrah and wind our way east. I free the main halyard and clamber up the mast where the head of the sail waits for me to adorn her with means of skyward propulsion. A twist of (red, numb) fingers secures the halyard and we are ready to raise that wind brushed fabric, ready to point the bow southeast across the swells, ready to hunker down for a night full of dark clouds and strengthening breeze.

I haul and crank and spur the sail into the air. The slight tipping, the hungry belly of the main satiated with wind, the land thinning to pale sand and green gray scrub as the buoys fall behind the stern: I am reaching towards home.

Another Home, where the soil is mixed with salt and water in slippery proportions, where the growth is fluid and the roots hold fast to time worn stones, where the tending is in the form of swirling thoughts and turbulent dreams. A vast farm of wildness unearthing before me.

Then.
Slack.
Rig.

Unsupported.
Mast.

Big.
Fucking.
Problem.

We curse and swing 180 to port. Furl sails, unbury fenders, cleat off lines with bitter ends in bowlines ready to catch the dock. The hurrahs stowed away, we motor towards repairs, towards another day or week of waiting. I (begrudgingly) give gratitude for failure early in the voyage, for the chance to turn back when there is turning back, for the taste of my salty heart fluttering in the wind and swimming in the waves and working through the line in my hands.

I shove red and numb fingers into damp pockets and know this voyage will come to me when I need it. That the waiting is part of the allurement, of the work. That my heart is still unfurling even (especially) in the disappointment. Home cannot abandon me, as I will not abandon it.

Wind, waves, sea, and soil. The love and the longing. The alchemy of my soul.

Another (totally different) Passage

Signal Flags

The grab bags are packed and ready by the bunk: water, granola bars, blankets.
She is listing hard. The ballast is deep but the weight rolls and shifts and kicks within her. She hasn’t yet left the dock, the lines (blood and flesh) still hold her.
She will soon be righted.

I am anxious as I go through the aisles of Trader Joe's on this familiar game of passage-making preparation. Who knows how long the passage will be? What should I expect? I provision heavily. Dinner one: bacon wrapped pork tenderloin with mashed taters and sauteed apples. Dinner two: stuffed turkey breast with roasted fennel and onions. Dinner three: portobello mushrooms stacked with roasted peppers, spinach, and goat cheese.
Nothing spicy, nothing too acidic. Don't make anyone sick.

I think on all those evenings gazing up at the emerging stars as a warm bowl of pasta sits on my foul weather geared lap, salt spray seasoning my food. I think of the nights I have been too tired to enjoy eating but needed the companionship a meal provides. I think of the nights held by the water, the sloshing fluid my home and the thumping of the bow through the waves a reassuring heartbeat.

This will be different. The city lights blur out the stars and moon. This roof will be my universe.

How many casseroles should I make? How much freezer space will I have? Will any of us be hungry or too exhausted to eat? I know one of us will be a drinker. It doesn’t worry me. I hope he drinks a lot actually. And sleeps through the night.

He’s not on watch this time with the rest of us.

He is the reason for the watch.

The passage will begin with cramps and contractions and a ride to the hospital. There will be storms with lots of cussing and lulls with hand holding and sweet words. There will be blood and poop and life and joy.

This is a new passage with my listing, rolling, very pregnant sister.

All I can do is cook and clean and feed and support: my usual role, in a very different setting. These cupboards aren’t on the diagonal, these onesies don’t need to be waterproofed, this passage has no set destination.

It is time to throw off the docklines little one! 

(but wait til next week, I hear my sister saying)

You will be our captain, no doubt about it.

I'm ecstatic and terrified and overjoyed for this (your) delivery.

Fair winds and following seas until we meet!