16 degrees "Bone crackling cold" Wyeth called it. As I stand on the dock trying to see thru my breath I notice two inches of solid ice around her waterline, not enough to do any real damage. Maybe with some wind it will scour the crap off that's grown since summer, anything growing below reaches down with its longing to be with it's brethren on the sea floor so close to home, yet...
Her deck covered in hoar frost looks like a sparkling carpet in the early morning light. I grab a shroud and swing myself on board being aware its surface is like black ice, one wrong step and the voyage could be over before it begins. My weight on the deck makes the frozen fiberglass creak and snap, no warm grunts and groans like a teak or yellow pine deck laid over oak that says "it's ok to step here I'll give you a little."
But the frost will all melt away with the later morning sun only to reveal a grimy sooty deck left from the yard lot and railroad tracks fifty feel away. If there's only two things I know it's one--women belong everywhere except the front line of a battlefield and two--a boat, a real boat doesn't belong tied to the land. Either just ain't natural.
I let go my death grip from the shroud and work my way aft to the cockpit. Once there I stand with tiller between my legs (knowing this would be a really uncomfortable time to slip) and gazed forward where it hits me as it's done so many times before. I'm really going to do this.
My mind drifts back to too many years ago as a bored kid watching TV, and glancing up at the bookshelf above, four old tobacco-stained cotton bound books from before the war standing together like some forgotten soldiers in a rest home waiting for someone, anyone to come by and ask about the story they have to tell.
SEVEN SEAS ON A SHOESTRING, IN QUEST OF THE SUN, HURRICANE'S WAKE, 10,000 LEAGUES OVER THE SEA. Long, Kauffman, Robinson, Gerbault. Who were these guys, and what did they do? At that seminal moment I stood, reached for one of the books and dropping down into the broken-down couch opened what for me would become a life-long dream. Who knew?
Lists, unlike life and bank accounts, never seem to get either shorter of smaller. But in the end what must prevail, being based on sound financial calculations and ruthless emotional disconnect is a group of planned directives that will not only achieve the desired end results to the highest standard but will also be one in such a timely manner that the participants in these deeds will be caught off guard with time on their hands.
