The wind is screaming. She screams, “You said you wanted me. Here I am, baby.”
I scream back, “I wanted you, but not like this! You’re drunk. And you’re a mean drunk. On moonshine you lack all control! And when you have no control, I have no control! Look at you, you can’t even blow in a straight line!”
She gets bitter at me for telling her the truth. She takes another sip of of the sky, all cockeyed and drooling, then blows more wind down us.
She yells back, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I scream, “Tramp” with both fists in the air. Which isn’t wise because I get knocked down on my side without one hand for the boat.
The waves are white horses and they are galloping fast. The horses are bucking back and forth because these white horses are wild and anything wild hates to be ridden. Up. Down. Up. Down Down. Down. Up.
The bow of Juniper collides with the white horses and pearls of water fly through the air. Spraying the deck and jib.
Everything is moving in an irregular fashion. Like the way a heart beats when it’s broken- in undulations that don’t make sense. That lack rhythm and grace. That advance like strangers from one frequency to the next.
I also have some very bitter news. I regret to inform you that we have been at war for many days now. It’s us against the current and we don’t have enough canvas or waterline to win. As soon as I finish writing this to you, I will surrender in hopes that it might subside.
At the moment, we are close-hauled moving through the water at 6 knots, but our speed of over ground is 4 knots. That’s 2 knots or current flowing against us and a whole lot of stolen thunder.
I think the sun feels bad and so he has sent us a cosmic gift. He has filled the sea with glitter that is the color of clementines. I stare at it and smile.
I read today that “every square yard of the suns surface is sending out energy equal to the power of 700 automobiles.” I read it in an astronomy book from 1975 though, so a lot has changed since then. Like back then Pluto was still a planet. How can they strip the title of planet from something that most of us have always known as a planet? This type of change can really rock my boat. I’d like to name another star. I’ll name it “Pluto is still a planet.”
We are almost to the middle of planet earth. But it feels like we are crawling towards the equator on broken glass. And the atmosphere is a bit ragged and the world is bit macedoine.
Last night a cold front came through and we slept beneath blankets for the first time. The cold made cumulus clouds rise up out of the night like mushrooms. I can see Hindu deities and crocodiles and sexy ladies smoking cigars and wild jungle cats up there.
We’ve been sailing between a bunch of long line fishing buoys. The four boats we saw, the night before, make sense now. We are in some kind of a hot spot. Even though, yet another fish got away from us. That makes three in a row. I guess the fish are wiser here due to all the commercial fishing. Like maybe, in these parts, the first thing a fish teaches their offspring is how to get off the hook.
Every living thing should know how to get off the hook!
Something else tried to get off our hook, Juniper’s gooseneck. That’s the fitting that connects the boom to the mast. Josh found the main sheet block that attaches to it laying on the deck. Then Sava realized that the gooseneck had been pushed almost all the way up. He fixed it quick. Without it our boom might have gotten as loose as a goose and come down crashing. My butterfly hatches would have busted and gone would be my rainbows.
I’ve been seeing big glowing things fly out of the water. They fly for a long way too. I don’t know what they are but I like them. It could be a flying fish covered in bioluminescence or it could be an alien shooting back into space. It’s hard to know much out here beyond what’s in front of our faces or in one of the books on Juniper’s shelves.
And what’s happening on land? We don’t know. The world could have had another explosion or outbreak or riot and we’d never know out here. What if we arrive to Tahiti and everyone is zombies or there’s been an apocalypse or the island sank or all the earth’s land is on fire? What if?
A small insect just flew onto my leg. Where did he come from? He is lost. I say to him, “I am not the flower that you are looking for.” He flies away, but I know he won’t make it anywhere, in this wind, with his little wings.
Out here we are like a winged insect trying to fly in a tornado. Are we making it anywhere?
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