Opua: a sub-species of equals
Opua: a sub-species of equals
Standing in the cockpit last evening, I thought with what is called boyish enthusiasm, except that I see no reason boys should have more enthusiasm than girls, or why children should have more than septuagenarians: This is so great. What was so great was just being here. I know I’ve said that before and will no doubt say it again. Some joys are infinitely repeatable. For me being on the water is one.
I was watching the return of the Wednesday night race.
The course was to the north, with a spinnaker start and home close-hauled port tack favored in ten knots of wind.
Tuesday my evening entertainment was provided by a boat about the size of HAWKE, seemingly abandoned in a hurry by her crew. Her mainsail was slovenly tied to the boom without a cover, and her self-steering servo-rudder was in the water with the vane still in place, flopping back and forth. Was the crew really that desperate for cold beers?
My mooring is near where the tidal current from the inlet to the east meets or divides from the main north/south flow.
Opua tides are usually only a knot or so; but they are strong enough at times to create vortices as they flow past HAWKE’s rudder; to make rowing a chore; and to swing boats against the wind.
This was the case Tuesday. The anchored boat danced erratically, sometimes too close to HAWKE, sometimes far away, sometimes stern to us, sometimes bow. Most amusing was to watch her move at speed backwards.
My cockpit music was Bach’s MASS IN B MINOR. I have been mostly listening to a shuffled playlist of all my non-classical music, numbering 3875 songs. There is a lot I forget I have. I’m now only up to track 883. It is all music I like; but sometimes I need Bach.
Three observations unrelated except they are about the pleasures of just being here.
The dawns these last two days have been perfect. Smooth water, clear sky, cool as the sun rises behind the mountain to the east.
While all the hills encircling this basin are green, I’ve noticed when I’m on deck around 6:00 p.m. that one hill to the southeast is more vivid emerald than the others. Perhaps it is at an angle that catches the rays of the lowering sun then. I’ve tried to photograph it without success.
I woke last night briefly at 2 a.m. to complete silence.
It is usually pretty quiet on my mooring. But at this moment I can hear rigging creaking, the flag flapping, the murmur of voices on another boat, and, now, an outboard motor.
But last night there was not a single sound. True silence is rare.
When I sailed CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE, I recall looking around while anchored at Bora-Bora and thinking that the view was as good from CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE as from the biggest boat there.
I sometimes get emails saying “I’m never going to sail around Cape Horn or across an ocean, but...” And the ‘but’ might be ‘This summer I’m going to move aboard full-time.” Or, “I’m really looking forward to winter being over and launching my boat again.”
There is no need for the qualifications. As the view from CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE was the same, the joy of being on the water is the same for us all.
Science tells us that life formed in the sea, made its way ashore, where after a while a few species decided that was a mistake and returned to the sea.
I wonder if some of us are a sub-species that hasn’t quite made it all the way back.
Thursday, February 9, 2012