The wind was soft that morning, just a hint of it from the south, and the sky was clear with the sun pale and early. The water was calm, a little ripple along the edges of the yawl’s hull as the boat floated there, bobbing in the quiet harbor.
There was no hurry to go anywhere, but he knew he would go. The yawl was small, and now old, with faded green paint that had once been bright, worn with time and salt. The lines of it were simple, but elegant in her simplicity. Only what it needed to sail smoothly and safely.
He stood for a while in the stern, looking out at the open water. The horizon was flat and distant, a blue line against blue sky. His skin was burnt by the wind and the sun, his shirt and pants faded and worn. He raised the anchor, tucked it up under the foredeck where it was out of sight.
He could see the wind moving the surface of the water now, a cat’s paw rippling across the bay. He raised the mizzen, the boat cocked to the breeze. Moving forward to the mast, he loosened the red line that wrapped around the mainsail, the boom and the gaff. There was no rush. The lines, the sails, the wood—all felt like old friends, things worn down by use but still trusted.
He raised the mainsail slowly, tightening the throat halyard first and then peaking up the gaff. The sail rippled as it felt the breath of the wind. The jib goes up last, the halyard cleated on the port side of the mast. The yawl leaned slightly to one side, and the water moved more swiftly beneath the hull. He took the tiller in his hands, steadying it with a loose grip, letting the yawl find its own course. He didn’t need to think much about it; the boat knew.
The sea was blue and gray under the light, the colors of an early morning, and the ripples in the water were small, gentle. The wind wasn’t strong, but it was enough. The boat heeled with each gust, the sound of the sails whispering in the breeze, the occasional slap of water against the hull. There was a rhythm to it, a quiet pulse, and the man felt it in his chest as he sat there, holding the tiller with one hand, his eyes squinting against the sun.
It was good, the sailing. No people, no noise. Just the boat, the wind, the water, and the steady motion that carried him along. He could hear the faint call of birds, a gull somewhere far away, but mostly it was just the sound of the water against wood, and the wind in the sails. The world felt larger than it was, and smaller too, at the same time. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but it didn’t matter. Time was something he could lose on a day like this.
The yawl came around a point of land and the water opened up, broader and deeper. The wind strengthened a little, just enough to make the boat heel more and the spray come over the sides. He adjusted the sails, slacking the sheets on the main and the jib, letting the boat take a steady course with wind aft of beam, cutting through the water with ease. The sun was climbing higher, a long-billed hat shading his eyes.
He thought about the life he once lived, the people he used to know, and how none of it mattered now. What mattered now was the boat, the water, the sky. The sound of the wind filling the sail, and the feel of the yawl cutting through the water. Everything else was distant in miles, distant in memories.
He knew the boat better than he knew anything else in his life, he had built it with his own hands. He thought how the boat was like him, rough around the edges. Had learned how to sail it over years—he had learned how to listen to the wind, how to watch the water, how to trust the way the boat moved under him. It was all so simple, in a way, and he thought that if you could learn how to do something well, then it didn’t matter what else there was to do.
The man looked up again, over the water and toward the sky. There were no clouds now, and the sun was higher, brighter, but not too hot. The yawl kept moving, steady in its course.
He took a deep breath, leaning back against the mahogany coaming, nudging the tiller in place with his knee. There was no need to hurry. Not yet. He let the wind carry him.
The boat knew where it was going. So did he.
And that was enough.
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