The ship sits at the dock. The people sit on the deck. The old wooden schooner knows what she's about to do. The people, not knowing what she's about to do, seem mildly anxious. Nervous chatter with the captain is sprinkled with questions about what happens if... A low rumble comes from below as deckhands unwind her ropes. Slowly, she begins to move, crew members toss the ropes on board, then hop aboard themselves.
Out of the slip, carefully backing past the giant ferry dock pilasters, she slows to a stop and makes a quarter turn in place until she is facing open water. The rumble increases, along with the expectancy of the twenty five souls entrusted to her care, and we are off.
For an old gal, this ship feels solid and glides through the water with the ease of a grandma pushing a stroller. Like one whose lifetime of experience does not dull their enjoyment of the task. In fact, there is a steady confidence that comes with age, be it stroller pushing or pushing one's bow through the salty sea.
It's a warm, early September evening and as we motor our way out of the bay, the captain gives us instructions regarding what to do should anyone fall overboard. The essence of which is, don't fall overboard. The wine bottle corks are popping now, ironic given the topic at hand.
At about ten minutes out, nothing untoward has happened, the water is calm, there's a gentle breeze. We get a lesson in sails and booms, the best part being, when the sails are hoisted, the booms lift too, safely above the heads of those of us sitting in the way. Ah, pour me some of that wine.
As the sails go up, the boat is quiet. Are those the faint strains of the Star Spangled Banner, no, it is just the wind. The heavy canvas is heaved up the mast. The engine now silenced, as the sails are oriented into the wind, the boat begins to move again. Wood and canvas, wind and water, that's all it is, but it feels like magic.
The sky is big. To the east, clouds fan out in long thin strips, but the soon to be setting sun is unobstructed, and it lights up the boat from the west, against the black of the Salish Sea. We are sailing now, moving through the water at a pace about as fast as a man can run.
The mood has gone from pensive to festive. The sea breeze has blown away any residual anxiety. The air is fresh and clean out here. Now there are only smiling faces pointing into the wind, eyes closed, taking in the sensations of forward movement and utter quiet.
Eventually, the spell is broken when we spot another schooner, much larger, and shout ahoy to all on board and they reply, "ahoy!" Then our captain calls to his crew. Some ropes are pulled. The booms swing round. We turn about and head the other way.
Starting out as strangers, it is as if the twenty five of us are now just one big happy family. Cameras are passed back and forth. It's a friendly thing to do, to offer to snap the shot so no one is left out of the picture. There is an air of relaxed enjoyment now. This sailing thing was a very good idea after all.
The water is calm, not a drop of spray hits the deck. The schooner tips only slightly as she makes a turn. Otherwise, it's like a hot knife cutting through butter, completely smooth sailing as they say. The evening air is warm and the sun shines on us too. No one puts on their coats. Not needed. And so it goes, back and forth across the salty water. One wants it to last forever.
And all too soon, it's time to go back. We sail toward the bay, and after a while, the captain calls to his crew and they slowly lower the sails. The time it takes is bittersweet, and once again the boat is quiet. I swear I hear taps being played on a lone bugle somewhere off in the distance.
The last of the wine is downed, cameras are stashed, coats retrieved, as the motor once more kicks in to get her majesty and all on board safely back to town. Dinner plans are discussed, as is the success of this lovely sunset cruise. People who've just met are shaking hands and saying good-byes.
Then it's quiet as we travel the last little bit, the boat slowing to a crawl, gently easing into the slip. The crew jumps off, the wooden steps are moved into place, and the guests are helped off onto the dock, moving single file, carefully. Thanks are offered to the crew and smiles abound as the Spike's precious cargo is unloaded.
What came together is dissembling into fragments once again, scattering home or out to eat. Changed for the experience though. Walking up Spring Street on only ever so slightly sea legs, one feels so much more alive than just two hours before. Nice.
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