I rest my hand on the rope testing the tension. After twenty-four months at sea I can read the feel of the wind through the ropes.
Reaching up I wipe spray out my beard as I look up at the sail. One corner is sagging a little. I give the windless a half turn and see it tighten.
Satisfied I go back to my seat by the transom. I sit listening to the hiss of the sea along the hull as I sip at my beer. The salt taste on the can from cooling it in the sea compliments the flavor.
I watch the last light of the sun as it sinks below the horizon. It's beautiful how the sky is every color you can imagine and some you might not.
I know Kim would have loved to have seen the waters of the Pacific drinking the sun. A part of me wants to delude myself and say I can feel her beside me.
But no. I'm alone.
Like I've been for more than two years. I take a long pull on my beer. A brand made in Hawaii it tastes gritty towards the last. I toss the can with the dregs into the wake of the 'Aurora'.
I blink away tears. Two years, two days. It feels the same; always will I figure.
Looking at the first stars I check my position. Close enough.
Debating another beer, or dinner... hunger wins.
Getting up my bare feet grip the deck boards securely. Long gone are the days of replacing expensive deck shoes. Way too many days since I first pulled the 'Aurora' out the harbor in Boston. I'd felt lucky to have gotten to Bermuda alive.
Seven months island hopping through the Gulf had taught me the ship and how to sail her. Then I got adventurous. I took a hop across the pond.
Ireland, Scotland, England, across the channel then down past a dozen ports in Europe. Never staying, but a day, or so in each. Then I was off the coast of North Africa.
A coin toss sent me south but I debated flipping it again. I could feel the pull of my Spartan ancestry pulling me towards the Mediterranean and then the Aegean.
I sailed down past where Bart Roberts met his end. I raised a glass of Rum to the tea teetotaler memory as I sailed past. The current and winds then took me west across the south Atlantic. I watched the Faulkin islands slip past. I remember watching the news about the war there when I was in my teens.
By this time I was so cocky, hell I was the king of the sea! Greatest sailor to pull canvas since my namesake John Paul Jones dropped his last anchor!
The Horn taught me my place.
Humbled I repaired in Argentina and waited out the storm season in harbor. I finally sailed around the Horn in flat calm with the sea like glass. I was still a nervous wreck.
Around Galapagos and up the coast I began to feel a pull for the deeper waters to the west.
I turned the bow of the 'Aurora' toward the Big empty after resupplying well in Peru. The weeks sailing the long open waters to Hawaii. When you can't see the land no matter how long you look and only your memories remind you it even exists you have time to think. You can find out a lot about yourself.
Like that you will piss yourself when a humpback whale gives the bottom of your boat a hard tap in the middle of the night. He was probably just curious.
I fire up the hot plate and get a pan of oil heating up. I unwrap the fillet. I caught a red snapper this morning. He hits the oil with a nice sizzle. The frying fish smell soon fills the cabin.
As I cook I think back to all the meals she made me years ago. I couldn't boil water back then without burning it. I season the fish with a pinch of this and that. Spices I've gathered in my travels.
When the fish is done I switch off the hot plate and hit the button on the microwave. Going out on deck I pull in the rope and strip another beer off the plastic loops. It's ice cold from its journey through the sea.
Wish I could tell Kim about the time when a shark bit off three of my beer. She would have laughed to have seen my face when I pulled in that severed line. She would have said I was contributing to the delinquency of a fish.
The snapper is flaky, and tastes of salt and oil, It goes well with the rice I microwaved. As I eat I do a mental check of my stores.
There area a lot of islands ahead. I'll need to resupply, but the need isn't great yet. There are hundreds of places ahead that will do for what I need. The marshal islands, Philippines, hell even Japan, and New Zealand. Almost any direction I chose has islands.
Whipping oil and salt off the plate with a piece of bread I debate my course.
North, south? Either way something new to see.
North would take me up the coast of Russia, around into the Bering Sea. Stop at maybe St. Paul, or Kodiak to resupply before the trip down the Canadian coast.
California? Didn't really want to go back to the U.S. Hawaii was so crowded. I've had my fill of people for the moment.
South? A lot of places down that way I haven't seen. Australia, then maybe over to India. Maybe I could go down the side of Africa to Madagascar. Round the Cape of Good Hope!
Maybe I should flip a coin. Not that it really maters I wont be staying long in any one port.
I decide not to decide. Always a good choice.
Pushing away my empty plate I pick my book up from where I left it last night. Peter Benchley's 'Jaws'.
Kim would have laugh herself sick to see me reading this out here on the ocean. The first time I read it I didn't even want to go near the freshwater lake near our house, let alone the beach.
Gone through quite a few books out here on the sea. It's a good place to read. My favorite by far is Patrick O ' Brian's Aubrey-Maturin novels. I've actually managed to go to several of the places he mentions in the books. Some are very different. Some haven't changed a bit.
My eyes get heavy as I read. Leaning into the cushions I settle in for a nap. My sea anchors are out, my lights are on, and I furled down the sail so only a bit of canvas is catching the wind. Like many a night I drift off to sleep sitting up on the bench seat. My head rolls with the sway of the ship. It's almost like sleeping in a rocking chair.
My bladder wakes me around midnight. I get up and go piss away the beers I drank earlier. The yellow stream disappears into the dark water without even a splash.
I shiver a bit and settle in on the seat at the transom. I open the lid of the box beside the transom and take out the leather pouch. The glowing coal of my pipe is soon blazing in the dark. I blow a puff of vanilla cavindish smoke into the night air. Leaning back I look past my sail and mast to the dark night sky and the bright stars. I feel pity for the people in their cities who never see the sky like this. After a bit I see a shooting star, then another.
