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.
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.
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!