I think I understand the reality of living on a boat, but I am still trying to grasp the mystique, the myth of it, the thing that makes all the bits and pieces cohere and make something that lights your mind on fire. I have made peace with the idea that this myth will not come to me whole, that I may be left with pieces.
This morning when I jumped into the dinghy a school of tiny silvered fish leapt, startled, landing on the bottom of the boat—they were in our shoes, and the bailer, and the lifejackets, and everywhere, with the large unclosing eyes of prey, and we reached for their tiny silvered bodies and tossed them, delicately writhing, soft sparks, back into the water.
Something I have noticed at sea—how things get left behind. It is a place where the old, landed grudges and regrets can dissolve into nothing, which is their natural state. On a clear day, running with the wind, ordinary, bound life disappears, and we may be made new by our imaginings.