by Skipper Mary
Some of this was first published in Mainsheet.
* * *
With her daughter back in school, my old city council comrade Dawn Rog, drove over for a day sail. Although the forecast was a bit muscular for my comfort, Rog is both fit and fearless, so out we went.
Rounding the river’s bend we found the bay’s waves were heading north in irregular progression, most around 5’, some steep. I set about 40% headsail, killed the engine, and headed for the lee of Green Island, six miles ESE, where I was hoping to tack without having a heart attack.
While being walloped, the First Mate for the Day chatted about city stuff, family stuff, life in general and how nice it was to be sailing, and wasn’t this just wonderful!
I asked her to check on the rest of the crew who stays below when we’re underway.
The First Mate crawled down the bouncing companionway steps and disappeared, then reappeared topside reporting she’d found the Cap’n holed up in the quarterberth. This was good news: the Cap’n had found a safe place and there was no puke.
We slammed on, heading for the island’s lee, but when the First Mate flew across the cockpit I swung the boat downwind while imploring her to “hang on.”
This was a pleasure sail, after all.
Nursing the tiller, I found the groove and we did some surfing and it was cool and we were smiling, but after a few hours I was ready to fire up the engine, furl the sail, motor back, park the boat and have a vodka.
This may be considered wimpy.
I didn’t care.
Once under power I was even able to join the conversation, which stopped abruptly when we spotted flashes of Kelly green canvas and glinting metal from what looked to be a half-submerged boat, but was in fact, a pontoon that had wandered out of the river’s shelter.
Staring at the fishing party insanity taking place 50 yards away, the First Mate pondered, “Think it’s going to fly apart?”
I was wondering about those rivets myself and throttled down to check for trouble. It was a family, it seemed, with the adult kids fishing and what appeared to be mom, maybe grandma, hunkered down with a chook pulled over her head.
The looks on their faces was something of, What's up with this?
They didn't return my wave, but did fall in behind us as we headed toward the marina.
With Revision in her slip, the First Mate and I relaxed in the cockpit watching the pontoon, now parked serenely upriver, where the fishing was probably better.
* * *
Note to the First Mate for a Day: Thanks for your vote on volume-based garbage and all your other work and votes on civic progress all those years ago. Great having you aboard!