Alone again, naturally....
2002-10-09

Well, all I've heard is that people are not coming for various reasons so it's likely I'm flying solo tonight. It's not a bad thing. It gives you time to think. I usually don't put the radio on when I'm alone. It's just me and the boat and the water and the wind. The sounds of your own breathing, nature.

The process is fairly simple, but a bit tough for only two hands. I take the launch out and open the hatches. Then the batteries and instruments get turned on as does the engine. I grab the winch handles, set up the lines for the sails and move the extra halyards back. I'll turn on the running lights too. It will be dark when I get back. When all that is done you go forward and cast off. If it is breezy you have to dash back to the wheel because the boat will start drifting immediately. Hopefully I've remembered to take off the wheel brake. Then into gear and a nice motor up the channel. That part is pretty routine.

At night in October the bay will be empty. The sun will still be out, but not for long. It will be cool, I'll be dressed in layers. As soon as I hit the last channel marker, N6 I'll roll out the jib. When the wind is from the north or the usual southwest, life is good. You lock the wheel, grind a little bit of the sail in, shut off the engine and sail out to the lighthouse and back. Tonight it will be from the east. That means close hauled and lots of tacking up Greenwich Bay.

Tacking a 40 foot boat solo is a project. You need to turn the boat, release one line and pull in the other all at the same time. You always end up one hand short but I manage. You learn to impovise. You also have to be careful. There is no one to pick you up if you go in. I always remember that.

Once I get set on a tack for a bit, I'll have a beer or maybe a grapes and look at the sky and listen to the water rippling off the hull. It is a very peaceful gurgling kind of sound. Going up wind makes it colder and I'll probably need a sweatshirt and a jacket. Off the wind I'll be able to unzip.

The sun is setting so early these days and I hate it. The sunset over Greenwich Bay though is absolutely beautiful and I'll watch as it slips below the hill. It is supposed to be partly cloudy so hopefully the sky will be all purple and pink and red.

I was on the road for the funeral of a sailing friend a few years back. Peter... A really nice guy who died too young. Since I missed the service I ended up celebrating his life with a late day solo. I had to hoist the sails then, 52 feet of grinding, but it was worth it. It was weird, I could feel him there. The skies we so incredible that night, like I've never seen before. I knew it was him telling us all good bye and telling us not to worry. So I didn't. Something that powerful you just have to trust.

I'll sail out past the point and once I get out to the light it will be time to come back. I'll jibe around R8, the lighted red bell. The wind is behind me now and we are going lots slower. It's warmer now, and quieter. I can lock the wheel and sit on the rail, riding home in the quiet. It's dark but I know where the cans marking the sand bar and rock are. Years of travelling the same route have ingrained their location in my brain.

When I get back to the beach I'll roll up the jib and start putting things away. I wait till I'm done to start the engine. I like the quiet. If I have any breeze I'll be back before the last launch stops running at 7:00 I'll drive past the moored boats and coast up to my mooring with just enough momemtum on to allow me to run forward and grab the pick up stick. I'm home... maybe I have been all along.

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