I go out for my after work sail. It is windy and generally glorious. We hum along and I take poor photos of the sunset.
I am beating back against a stiff breeze and a reasonable chop when the mast, sail and yard make a break for it. The whole lot shoots over the port side of the boat into the wild and wistful ocean. Golly!
I do not know what the correct nautical terminology is but the wooden slab into which the mast fits, just ripped away from its retaining screws and the whole kit and caboodle, the whole shebang, the whole shooting match, lock, stock and barrel, went over the side.
I may tell you that I was surprised.
So, I manage to get everything back on board and lashed down fairly securely as I am being blown heartily out to sea.
Oars are low tech. I love them. I start rowing back in against the wind and reconcile myself to the fact that, being a couple of miles out and heading straight into the wind, I will be rowing far into the night. I sing, “The Mingulay Boat Song”, ” Westering Home”, “Leaving Port Askaig”, “My Heart is In the Cold, Cold Ground”, “I See Mull” as I heel ya ho to the safety of the shore.
The rowing, once it became clear that I was making headway against the wind, was very pleasurable. I have been rowing since I was very young. Alone at night on the East China Sea, under a crescent moon and the twinkle, twinkle little stars, rhythmically pulling on the oars is a good place to be. I lose interest in where I am, knowing that I will eventually close to the shore. Finally, I nearly row into the big rock just off the house.
Hmmmm, how to fix? Just have to wait until tomorrow.
Gosh! Thank goodness the McLachlan genes came down to you.
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