Whatever the Weather
for coffee. A snack, too. When the water neared the top of
the bridgedeck, it was time for a bath and shower. Out here, the rain did not confine, but freed. Staying below the sides protected me from the breeze, and I lolled. It was uniquely comfortable, sipping coffee and bathing in rainwater. In any vivid way, there wasn’t much to
Te rain continued. Outside my anchor- age, an aggressive wind blew and churned, while I remained safe and solitary. It wasn’t easy, but I was able to relay my
location and situation to Lola and prom- ised to check in daily if possible. Because of one of my past adventures, she is not likely to send out a search party simply because I am overdue. She is not easily alarmed, either, particularly concerning my behavior. Still, it seems good to keep her informed if I’m days behind schedule. Snug, comfortable, and well provi-
sioned, I passed the time with music, books, and frequent weather checks. I finished Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything, a remarkable piece of research and writing, and spent a little time with Schopenhauer’s work before getting bummed out. Voltaire left me feeling better. Boredom is infectious, and its an-
tidote is activity, even if the activity is simple, silly, or both. So I hummed and conducted Shostakovich and Bizet, and strummed with the Kinchafoonie Cow- boys. Changing stations had me rockin’ with Te Boss and Chuck Berry, croon- ing with Elvis, and having it my way with Old Blue Eyes. Yeah, I danced like no one was watching, too. Gene Kelly singing in the rain inspired
me, so the little AM/FM went in a big dry bag, I changed into trunks, and gath- ered supplies. A quick trip to the cockpit, and I was in a surprisingly warm rain. Starting at the bow, the deck and house
got a good scrubbing while the radio, broadcasting from deep in the open dry bag, kept me moving. No dancing, though. Too risky. Elsie’s cabin top, decks, and cockpit
got cleaned from stem to stern, and well rinsed. Scrubbing around the scuppers, I had an idea, and aſter the cockpit was rinsed, I taped over them and went below
82
see, gauzy grays and faded blues out there. Closer, there was water on varnish, drops and streams of rain, the shapes of cleats and blocks. Te radio silenced, I listened. Rain on
the water made a hybrid sound, a mixture of splash and hiss, steady, then not, up- beat, then muted. Trees on shore rattled and shushed, unseen, different from the sounds of water. Elsie, sweet Elsie, home and refuge, made her own quiet music, gently. Far away, something big churned, a commercial fishing boat, maybe. The salt air was tempered by the
sweeter smell of rainwater; soap and shampoo from my cockpit bath were tiny parts of it. Te rain tasted clean, but when it fell from the boom and sail cover, it was a little salty and something hard to define, but it was no longer simple rain. We’ve all been caught in the rain, but I
was anything but caught, and it was a rare pleasure, good all around. Te heavy rain had driven me inside, then drawn me out. An ordinary rain, still unique. I stayed there a long time. Finally, I pulled the plugs and stood
in my shower, which had plenty of head- room. After checking the anchors and anchor light, I went below to dry and change. Sleep sneaked aboard, and it was morning. The rain sounds changed, the new
day graced by the peculiar beauty of fog. Fortified by coffee, I wiped the cockpit down and took in the dampness, the light and sound of it. Te rain stopped, the fog eased away, a faded curtain slowly drawn, introducing a spectacular day, crisp and clear. The tide was going out, the wind
coming up. It was time to go. Within a half-hour the boat was tidied, anchors secured, and sails hoisted. We followed the tide out, beating into
a boisterous sea. Clear of surf and shore we fell off to a rollicking close reach, full and bye. It was glorious. Dave Brubeck and Yo-Yo Ma provided a perfect soundtrack with “Concordia,”
and we sailed in that perfect place. Clean clouds and a perfect sea carried us on, and in a few short hours it was time to anchor again. Te sun leſt behind a red sky, and night
brought the stars. Tere was no rain, for which I was grateful. A restful night followed. First light came quickly, but I moved
slowly; sleep had been deep and full. Te sun met an empty sky, and I raised my cup to both. Lingering, enjoying the morning was a compelling thought, but getting underway was more appealing. Te choice to leave was rewarded by
a steady wind coming from the right di- rection, and Elsie moved us along smartly into the aſternoon. Waypoints and land- marks came up, then slid behind us, the day perfect. But for the common beauty of it, the trip was uneventful. Other boats came in sight, and our
destination lay on the far horizon. It would be late in the aſternoon when we arrived, with little time to waste. The knotmeter normally doesn’t get much attention from me, as the sails, telltales, sound and feel provide plenty of advice. Tis was different, as entering an unfamil- iar harbor late is not an exercise I favor. As I trimmed and eased, the wind slid
aft of the beam by a finger. Bearing off very slightly and easing the sheets, we picked up a tenth, then another, until we had gained a half knot, sometimes a little more. Trying to squeeze all the speed Elsie
can provide is not something I do oſten or particularly well. Elsie and I fit like a pair of comfortable shoes, and neither of us is inclined to hurry. Her very type—a Manatee—suggests comfort and relax- ation rather than speed. We made the entrance in daylight,
but night was coming by the time we were alongside and tidied. Finding my land legs, I headed out in search of food prepared by someone else. Someone shouted “It took you long enough!” It was my uncle, R. Herman Franklin, and my cousin Dan, sporting a new scar. Of course, they knew where the beer was cold and the food good, so there was no need to search. Family, friends, and sea stories end a
trip well. But there was important busi- ness afoot. We had friends who needed help, and my uncle and cousin had a plan.•SCA•
SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR
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