So gently powered that we didn’t even bob, the boat floated across Fishers Island Sound. We’d motored out of the channel and zipped the sails into place – full, easy sails and we wouldn’t have known we were moving except the green buoy slid across the land behind it. Oh, and the GPS said 3 knots. Silence broken only by our musings on silence until the weather shifted.
The wind built and so did our speed. Starting to heel, then really heeling. We reefed to bring her back to balance but kept heading for the Island, two miles from the Connecticut shore but legally a part of NY. A small ferry passed us, crossing our bow a safe distance ahead.
We tacked.
A harder beat, colder, windier, slower against the tide. We tacked again, then ran before the wind, creating a fiction of gentle breeze. All points of sail tested and re-tested. We looked at each other, shrugged and said, “Done?”
“Done”.
We doused sail and motored back into the slip.
Sailing. I fucking love this shit.
Sailing loves you right back. I can see you both glowing from here.
This reads like a poem.
Thanks for taking us out.
Sailing. I fucking love this shit.