sailing

After

After a sail the wet ropes
smell of adventure.

We drop the anchor
or grab a mooring.

The motor dies into silence.
The boat drifts a little further.

The sea swirls and spins
around the rotor blade.

We light the meths stove;
wait for the kettle to boil.

Sit in the cockpit;
feel the stillness still.

Watch the sun submerge;
the darkness rise.

Lie down in the vee birth;
rock to sleep.

Airlie Beach

They sold red wine
by the cask
in a bottle shop
on the Airlie Beach Marina.

We drank it
by the bladder-full:
its taste not tainted
by its foil container.

Still wine-rich
after all those months
in its metallic
packaging.

But those nights
back from
dangerous days
on the waves,

our necks and shoulders
a little stressed
from pressing the tiller:
pulling the wind,

we gulped it down:
a deep, sweet sensation
of grape tastes
and relaxation.

American River

It was a day of rest
but the wind wasn’t resting;
it buffeted the boat,
urged it away
from its safe anchorage.

The halliards
rattled and clanged.
The ropes
creaked and strained.
The boat’s rocking
was no lullaby.

I tensed and rolled
on the v-birth:
watched through
the forward hatch
the storm clouds gather.

Tried to sleep, while you
scrambled overhead,
adjusting lines and ropes;
checking that the anchor
hadn’t drifted.

Every night you were
the man on watch;
while I just slumbered;
trusting you
to always keep me safe.

Bay of Shoals

How far is it to the town?

We carry
our ice bucket
our laundry bag
our swimming things
our camera.

It’s a country track
there and back
about four kilometres
but our feet don’t register
the bumps in the road

and the sun
out of comradeship
doesn’t burn us:
we don’t stand still
long enough.

There is always the boat
waiting for us in the bay;
a day of sun ahead:
the pub, the small shops,
the grassy path.
and our togetherness.

Coming back.
tired from the walk.
we stumble
down the last sandy path
to the beach
and wade through water
warm as the afternoon

to our home
to the boat
floating
in a silken sea.

Christmas Cove

In recent years
they’ve constructed floating moorings,
toilet blocks and concrete stanchions.

The music from the pub
drowns out the slap of sea;
the wind in the rigging.

The overhead lights burn yellow
and the moon
is no longer necessary.

But back then
it was a muddy backwater;
shallow at low tide.

There were no
moorings;
no pontoons or pylons.

We had to seek
for deeper water;
throw a rope around a pole

or nose the boat
against the one small
patch of rotten planking,

Once I jumped
too early
landed in the murky water:

the bowsprit caught
my jacket; suspended me
like a figurehead.

Coorong

I was new to it all;
new to the sea.
We were new
to each other.

My mother bought me
striped shorts.
I bought a purple bikini:
my first in seventeen years.

There were dangers
in crossing the Murray Mouth
but I stood brave,
and we made it across.

We anchored
under sand hills
on a piece of inland sea
that lay, lake-still,

but if you listened
you could hear,  across the sand-spit,
the roar of the ocean:
the hiss of the spray.

By day we climbed the dunes
barefoot: our calf muscles burning;
the wind whipping our hair,
the sand drifting into ancient middens.

I had never felt
so young before: 
forty years of standing still
and now this freedom.

At night the boat floated
in absolute darkness
(unless there was a moon)

and in the morning
pelicans flew
across a perfect sky.

Kangaroo Island

We started out
with clear skies;
a beer, a sunhat,
the sound
of the outboard motor,
the sun in our eyes.

To begin with
it was a windless day
my first full day
on the ocean.
I kept my nerves
at bay

until the wind
picked up,
the sun lowered
and the waves
became larger.

The hull
of the boat
crashed into the swell.
I expected it
to break and crack.

I wiped
my captain’s eyes
free of salt
so that he could see
the waves ahead.

Once we pulled under
the shadow of cliffs.
I held the tiller
while he filled
the petrol tank.

Later
we tied up
against the tires
of a boat ramp.
Ate something warm.

Kingscote

We brought the boat round
from the Bay of Shoals.

The day was clear.  Absolutely blue
and calm.

But it was hot, we wanted to swim.
All around us on the way

from the Bay
the sting rays circled.

Half way between
our anchorage and the jetty

the lure of pure blue water
became too strong

so we threw
the rope ladder over.

The water was cool.
It reinvigorated our limbs.

We swam on the surface.
Prayed that the sting rays

would stay close
to the bottom of the ocean.

Blueberries

The General Store
at Penneshaw,
back in the day,
served fresh blueberries
in a very large bowl.

The cream
that smothered them
was pure white;
(pure cream).

After a day
of wind and spray,
devouring just
a cling-wrapped sandwich
and instant coffee
brewed on the boat stove,

the cream,
the  blueberries,

tasted like
nectar.

Port Vincent

If you anchor
just off-shore
with the boat’s bow
nosing the sand

you can leap
into the shallows
and after just a few
wet steps

stagger
across the hot sand
up the sandy wooden ramp
to the esplanade.

Buy an ice cream
from the kiosk;
let the afternoon sun
melt it into your mouth.