The truth of the matter is that blue water sailing is boring as all hell. Where do you think the saying comes from: “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” It’s a desert. Hollywood may do a good job selling the romance of open ocean, but this only lasts a day or so. I suppose that blue water stuff is only bested in matters of boredom by the grey water, sailing the North Atlantic. I’ve never been, but that has to be one dreary situation. And yet:

“Haul on the bowline, Sarah lives in Liverpool.”

This isn’t to complain too much. I love the mountains and the sea, but that doesn’t mean that Mama Earth isn’t without her wrinkles. The leaving of port is great. Full of promise and dopamine from goodbyes. Adventure. The spray of water on face and the drying of salt in hair. Sun on skin and a view full of approaching horizon. What’s beyond it? Who knows? That’s the great part.

Then the doldrums hit. That fantastic piece of boredom that really puts most of human history in perspective for you. The truth of the matter is that the vast majority of this is horrifically easy. It’s just the funny names and foreign pieces of equipment that intimidate the newcomer. Is the GPS good to go? We’re fine. You know what they did for sunscreen back in the golden days of corsairs, buccaneers, and privateers? Nothing. They just laughed at the new guy until his feet and hands blistered into leather. Germ theory was an urban legend, and they barely understood that ingesting vitamin C might just keep your skin from rotting off.

“She’s luffing” is just old-timey speak for “if it looks messed up it probably is”. This shit isn’t exactly rocket surgery. What you’ve got to remember is that guys crossed oceans and then proceeded to rape and pillage entire cultures out of existence when they couldn’t write their own godforsaken names. Where do you think the term “make your mark” comes from?

“Shamrock and rose boys, shamrock, rose, and thistle too.”

But there is a beauty to the shriek of a gull and the billowing of a sail. That sound of crash and spray on the bow. Sleeping on a boat is like being rocked into slumber by the Mother Ocean that we all come from. She bore us, and still cares for us, even after we left her. We traded our gills to take to the trees. It’s wonderful. The very primordial ooze we all crawled out of whispering: “I know you can’t breathe me anymore, but know I still love you.”

Then there’s the arrival. The animals are back. The birds are calling. The fish are jumping. Other ships are passing to pull into port. The boys are getting rowdy. Let’s raise a little Cain.

“Haul on the bowline, Katie lives in Sydney.”