A sailing adventure story should always begin with the mutual understanding, between teller and told, that truth should never get in the way of a good adventure tale.
…just saying.
All yards aloft before the crack of noon, S/V S.N. Nomad, once again, escapes the clutches of the lost colony at Roanoke. Temp us they did with sharks and nails and gators and pizza, but our ship, she did indeed carry us away.
Through the dangerous shallows guarding Roanoke Sound from the Outer Banks and into the deep dark sunset rainbowing the western horizon.
Before the limning light left completely, James pointed over my (Dena’s) left shoulder from his leaning perch in the companionway while I monitored our heading.
“Look!”
And look I did, and once I did, I could not look away. The full moon grew from the mist-shrouded horizon like the heart of fire, orange and solid, without a flicker. She uncloaked herself elongated and then stretched into her true roundness as she ascended.
The stars never had a chance.
Off watch, the searchlight brilliance peeped through the portlight cover, seared through my eyelids, and moved me on a restless counterpoint to the jagged action of the boat lifting and swinging through waves hitting the starboard quarter, one after another without pause.
…without dark, without fear we sailed on and on through the brightest night of our lives.
Waves, they slurped and sucked at the limits of our perception but buoyancy is how we roll on and through perigee and apogee.
We sailed, broad, close, run all the points we adore but Pamlico never let us off for a second. She demanded our attention just as Luna did, only she seemed angrier and, at times, much too close.
Even Sol had to wait.
Eventually, set she must.
But end? Not yet.
And this time, that night, truth and fact aligned, describing a circle of perfect reality. Oh, joy!
A teller cannot tell without someone to be told.
Reporting for my watch. Do I get kisses?
This poem, oh, what an exquisite illumination. Your words and glimpses swirled through space and time, borne by light to me up on the widow’s walk, the weightless treasure of a witness. Thank you for this marvelous gift.
I’m marked by the moon, inked in three places and soul dedicated. She is my first true love, we’re as married as I ever want to be. And yet, I’m never hurt when she sees other seekers. Jealousy would be profane. She is far too grand for me to own.
Like yourself.