into the mystic

Twenty five degrees and a hard, late season frost this morning.  Crystal skies.  A light breeze.

I arrived to find a crabber launching a skiff covered with crab pots.  Early in the season crabbing is notoriously slow with the water still cold, but with this mild winter the crabber says he pulled 25 jimmies out of his pots on his last run.   I'm gonna be rich, he says with a smile. 

Weeks since my last sail I rig Spartina like it was the first sail of the year, fumbling with knots, forgetting to pull the cover off the mizzen before stepping the main, backing down the ramp without dock lines on the cleats.  What was I thinking.  Or why wasn't I thinking.

Motoring downriver I duck into Ocean Marine to take a look at Mystic, a majestic charter boat maybe headed north to New England for the season.   It reminds me of Van Morrison's Into the Mystic, and I spend the morning sailing in a steady chilled breeze listening to Van Morrison's voice.  No pandora, no iTunes, no speakers, just the music playing in my mind.

Tied up in the basin I put the new boom tent in place.  It takes a while and a few adjustments, but it is a better set than the one I got rigging in the driveway.  I might change out some line, add a grommet, go up a size on the bungee cord, maybe change out a clip or two.  But it is good to go now, any tweaking will just make it easier to rig.

The breeze kicks up in the mid-20's in the afternoon, gusting to 30.  Reefed, then double reefed, good practice for the spring cruise.  Snow birds pass through, mostly power boats but also the very fine junk rigged Kilda out of Halifax.  A woman on board bundled in a jacket and cap waves, photographs Spartina, and I photograph Kilda.

A fine day on the water.