A eulogy to sailing
All around us, the water sparkles like a blanket of sequins, and Flying Fish, lit in bioluminescence, scatter across the water before our bow like aquatic shooting stars. Behind our stern, we have drawn a sparkling track on the water, revealing that my steering is a little unfocused. A waxing crescent moon, tilted in the sky like a flaming canoe, is setting on the horizon. And behind it, the darkness is closely woven, with plaited clouds and astral tinsels. You need darkness to reveal the light.
The breeze is warm, blowing from the north. We are sailing west to an Island called Kofiau. Wind on the beam is the perfect wind direction for Black Duck, when we can hoist the staysail inside our genoa, balancing the boat nicely and adding a little extra speed.
I have to eulogize this night, for it has been a long time since we have had a good night at sea, unimpeded by the lack of wind and unravaged by its full power. Do you understand why I must make so much of it?
I think poetry arises from the moments that stand out from all the others, whether for better or worse, when, in our telling, we try to echo the immensity of the moment. This night is one of the better; why not decorate it further in words?
Alone at the helm
On longer passages, we do watches, three hours or sometimes more if the other missed out on sleep. The only self-steering we have is a wind vane, which works great in consistent wind. But here, where the weather is either still or erratic, we always attend the helm.
Although this used to be standard practice, nowadays, it is inconceivable to many sailors that one should be stuck at the helm for three hours straight. Yet, without glorifying hand steering, for it is certainly dull at times, it is a good place to stand in attendance while letting the thoughts spill over. And we have stood here for hundreds of hours, that is, hundreds of hours free to think. And when the ship rides through space, paving the way through a cosmic glitter, it feels good to be the skipper at the helm.
As you can probably imagine, night sailing can be extremely trippy, even when it is dull. And I think that all sailors can relate to this: was the evening melancholic, or have we been lethargic for a while, it seems recurring that at sunrise, we feel somehow transformed, our spirits restored.
But the night is a journey of many emotions, so helplessly commanded by the weather.
Although the other person is lying down below, only meters away, the dark and its deprivation of sight, as if you are awake with your eyes closed, can make you feel so utterly alone. It is both confronting and liberating and for the many solo sailors, it is a stark reality I can only imagine.
Then add to the darkness and the loneliness a good level of sleep deprivation to excite your sentiments further. It is no rare phenomenon to hallucinate doing night sailing, and I for once, have had a full conversation with an imaginary stowaway. I tried to offer him food, but he would not come out from hiding. Although it was kind of unsettling, I was so extremely grateful to have someone to talk to. And when I realized that it was only my imagination playing tricks, I felt upset that he was gone, leaving me alone yet again.
If you take your time at the helm without any other stimulants than sailing the boat, no podcast, no music, no book, your thoughts can reach the stars. Do you dare to be alone?
A healthy dose of boredom
When we were kids, Jannik, my sibling’s father, always said this really annoying thing when we came to him complaining that we had nothing to do. “It is healthy to be bored,” he would say, “When you are bored, you start inventing” Back then it really was annoying, especially when his response became predictable as any mantra does over time, it is not until recently I have discovered what he truly meant.
When you have time with yourself and your thoughts, you have the chance to imagine, to explore your own mind. You can look at the world when it is quiet and put your own interpretations to it. Quiet, empty moments like that used to be so normal, moments waiting for the bus, waiting for school, waiting for mom, waiting for work or for work to be over, waiting for sleep. But now, we rarely wait; in fact, we hate to wait for things, even if it is only for a couple of minutes. We can hardly wait for a green light without getting a phone out and scrolling the news for entertainment. At every opportunity, at every quiet, empty moment, we turn on a screen. We sit quietly, physically still, but our minds keep racing. Many people don’t even take shits anymore without taking the world with them.
Why is it so hard to be alone? Who are we if all we think about is a reaction to the noise of others? Who would we be if we let it go quiet? Who would we hear?
Imagining the apocalypse
When night-sailing the feeling of being alone is exaggerated by that extreme physical isolation. And it is easy to play the thought experiment: “If all of humanity seized to exist right this instant, I would not know. For all I know, this boat is the only thing that exists in the whole wide world.” it is a mad thought, and as stupid as it may sound to someone home on land when you sit by yourself on the boat out of sight of land, it is scary how realistic the thought can seem.
What I like about that thought is how I feel when I think about it. I feel an instant love and longing for the world, I feel happily dependent. I feel sociable, grateful, and optimistic. My own life is so great because it is not single, but one of so many others, a bead in a necklace, a flake in a snowman, a hair on a hare, a human in humanity.
So I wrote a rap:
My life is so great because it is one of so many others, for nobody cares if no one else bothers.
I’m a bead in a necklace, a flake in a snowman, I’m a hair on a hare, without fur hares are bare.
My day is better when I spend it with you, but sometimes you don’t want to do what I do.
Because two geese are never the same. But you are a goose, and I am a goose.
Some gooses are wild, and some are tame; some play music and some make shoes, but he is a goose, and she is a goose.
Sometimes, it is good to be alone, but many alone are on their phone because they don’t know how to be on their own.
Because phones are full of things to do and answers to things that you never knew.
It is a friend, a teacher, a god of news. It is a window to so many views.
Without it, how do you know what to think, what to eat, what to think, what to think, what to think?
It is with you every step that you take; it records and remembers the things that you make.
It loves you and doesn’t judge you; it connects you, inspects you, reflects you, and gives depth to you.
You are in it, and it is in your pocket. You are in your pocket; you never forget it. You will never lose you.
But your mind is like porridge, it has to be stirred, it is also a library of all things you have heard.
The earth is round, the day is repeating, and tomorrow at six, you have a meeting.
Your friend needs support; how to help is a thought. Remember to water the flowers, count, and manage the hours.
What is the meaning of life?
Where do we come from, and where are we going? What’s worth forgetting, and what’s worth knowing?
What goose is the right goose, and what should we share?
What are we scared of, and what do we dare?
Be nice to your mind, take care to maintain it, remember you fully depend on it and treat it as a friend.
A head is so small yet so full of stuff; no wonder that sometimes we feel it’s enough.
But thoughts can’t be tossed; they can only be thought through, just like you get to a river and walk through or find a goose to talk to.
But sometimes your thoughts are for you to sort alone in the night on a boat under the moon.
Thanks to all the bright things in the sky and the darkness in between which let them be
And thanks to the land with all the people I love
And a special thanks to Riley’s pancakes with peanut butter, jam, and maple syrup
Did you enjoy what you read? Please follow our updates on https://web.facebook.com/blackduckatsea as we keep sailing into new adventures.
ALSO READ: Nights at Sea 1# Shiver me Timbers is that a Tornado?