Creative Writing - Sailing

By Jared Solomon | Posted: Tuesday May 30, 2017

The calm winter’s sun creeps over the distant hills. The transparent sail with orange highlights glides up the track, crinkling and crackling as it unrolls.

As the sail rises higher and higher, the glistening reflection blinds the skipper and me, and casts a dark shadow down the boat ramp. Slowly it blends with the calm and sparkly, orange shaded water. The sail calmly sways from side to side and occasionally flaps in the morning’s ocean breeze. The stench of salty and dank sailing gear floods the changing room; everyone gags.

The yacht squeals while it slips off the trolley into the bitterly cold harbour’s water. The sails tighten and the boat leaps forward, away from the safety of the shore. The tame lapping of ripples against the hull rings out across the bay. The soft breeze streams through our hair and the chill nips at our faces. In the distance a gust dances and twirls across the water’s surface. The boat slowly glides forward through the mirror like water. The puff ever so slowly creeps closer as if it’s the predator and we are the prey. It attacks and the boat heels. I leap out on the trapeze wire, instantly flattening the boat and applying excitement to this bitter morning. The yacht pushes its way through the water. My body is parallel with the surface. The gust ends as quickly as she came, SPLASH! The boat heels on top of me dunking my sorrowing body into the salty water. I attempt to haul myself back into the boat and the expression of disappointment spreads across the skipper’s frustrated face. “If only the breeze had stayed just a little longer.”

Then, the trees on the horizon lead a Mexican wave, surging along the hill tops towards us. The tiller is moved towards the skipper, signalling the beginning of the downwind run. Hand over hand I rip at the kite halliard; the more I pull the faster the pink shadow that is cast across the icy glass water grows. Just as the gennakar takes its curved shape the gust connects. I heave myself out on the wire, with my back skimming across the now apparent waves. The yacht bounces in and out of different waves, in between surfing to the bottom. The bow points up then down, switching every second just to keep the boat upright. An even more powerful gust hits us with full force. The boat smashes flat onto the water, sails and all. A loud bang and crash howls across the harbour. Bailing just in the nick of time, we fly through the air and into the water narrowly missing thousands of dollars’ worth of bills by literally millimetres. The bright pink gennakar is hauled away and as we clamber onto the centre board, the skipper and I share our views and laugh about the frightful run and our near death experience. The wind whips and howls through the now sideways hull. The white capping waves are force spray into our faces leaving their salty essence under my nose.

Slowly the boat comes about; upright, and it’s time to start over. The intense flapping of the sails and the clanging of ropes boogying in the wind deafens us. The hull creaks and groans with each individual puff of wind. As the boat speeds up and starts to plane we can hear a small vibration. The sails load up, the vibration increases and the carbon masts frightening creaking escalates.

One final call. A shout coming from the coach marks the time to rid the harbour of human disaster. It’s time to let the boats rest. Strange beasts will not harm them, well at least for the rest of today. The sails slither down the track and are hung in the shade and cool of the club house. The left over water trickles onto the floor and seeps through, back to where it came from. The mast is lowered slowly, for without her the skipper and I are doomed. And the boat, well, she’s tired, put away ready for the future.