Journeys and the Six Scents
Seven hours under sail, 14.5nautical miles, in light and variable winds, often against the current; we averaged about 2kts. Unimpressed? That’s okay, WE were the ones doing it, and the size of the journey is often inversely proportional to the size of one’s vessel (Sj=k/Sb). In those seven hours under way, we achieved a steady SOG of +/-5.1kts at times, kept the boats moving through moments of little wind at maybe 0.5kt, rafted at anchor to enjoy cold canned herring fillets in curry sauce, mystery meat jerky sausages, fresh cool water, and Cadbury chocolate, fought some rapids in the stream and, late in the journey, grounded intentionally and in cautious calculated fashion in soft mud so as to appreciate an afternoon marsh moment and contemplate the poetry of the scene. This catboat sailor has a soft spot for mud and marshes.
Following our lunch at anchor, satisfyingly fed and rested, we decamped, drifting apart like a space capsule and space station gently separating, raised sail, back-winded to port, spun around, gybed, scrubbed and stowed the anchor, and rigged for the downwind return to home. Adjusting our plan slightly, we sailed our port tack more abeam the veering breeze through the ripping Latimer Straits, then, wind continuing to veer, we remained on our port tack as we changed course again to the northward east of the Light, outbound current determined to fight us easterly. Like swimmers surviving a riptide, we crossed this eastbound current northward until it eased away from the reefs and let us work more readily westward again nearer shore. Not once did we leave a port tack, only adjusted sail as needed, as the wind was veering steadily. A few miles onward we slipped past the monastery at Enders, a dory and a cat pleasantly tired and soon done venturing, but for one last stop…
Perhaps six-hundred yards ahead, lay the inbound entrance to the Cat’s favorite diversion. Hardened sheets, slowed to a crawl on a downwind run, gently landing on the mound of soft mud under the forefoot and keel, we set up to wait for the now incoming tide to cause us to rise up and over to continue our journey through the deeper waters beyond the mound. Stepping out of the cockpit while time allows the respite, the mud envelopes our bare feets in its caress, as the Cat and I take in the scent of mud and decay suggestive of a healthy marsh environment, the slight mustiness of damp straw, salted air, and guano so telling of our beloved environment at this scale, of things as perhaps they should be. This clears the mind, poetically, as the afternoon Sun’s glinting sprinkles my view with affections fond and familiar. I am home.
*NOTE: The stern-wise photo of Jazzpurr catboat and crew hove-to accompanying this blog entry is by dory-captain Matt McKenzie and is used here with his permission.