A Day Onboard

22/2/2016
The drive over to "bohemian" is totally enjoyable; to break from the busy-ness of home life and the anticipation of a chilled time alone onboard, pottering about, ticking things off my list. As I drive I can't help thinking when my list is down to negligible stuff, my bank balance can sustain me for a while and the kids don't need continual parental guidance. Where will I go first? Noumea, is about 10 days out, a fairly straight forward navigation of open water without reefs or islands, just shipping off the Australian coast one imagines. But what if ... I hit a real storm, or just can't hack the physical       demands, I hit a submerged shipping container or whale? I rationalise all this negative talk as product of low confidence and spur myself on; I could be too old soon. An old surfing buddy died of leukaemia last week. Grab life, take your opportunities.

I pull into the "boat ramp" which is really just a clearing under trees by the waterside. Well at high water, when the tide's out you have to negotiate oyster encrusted rocks and them squelch off onto the mud before you reach water. But this morning, we're in luck, the water level is nearly at the grass and I could launch directly from the back of my ute. There's no-one about: good I have it to myself or; bad those other yachts have to pass another week of neglect in their dreary existences.  
The sun is high and promises a hot afternoon, the wind is soft, blocked by the huge hill to the southeast. Only occasionally does the subconscious wailing of the she oaks disturb my happy soul.

Loaded up with tools and spares I endeavour to row the long way out, passing some of the more neglected yachts, just to feast on their beauty, offer a few words of encouragement and shoo the seagulls from their decks. A 60 foot steal schooner, one could imagine anchored at Casey Station, Antarctica, looks more frail up close, fermenting boils of rust down by her waterline, "hungry horse" ribs exposed on her bow. A Hood looking decidedly poor, growth below, grime above,  frayed rigging. Someone had plans, she has rungs riveted on the mast up to the cross trees to con her in through coral reefs perhaps. An old timber yachts, one seam a hand span above her waterline gapes throughout her length. Once close-fitting timber joins now split and drying, portholes  clouding, sad. Another with a Bimini trailing rags of tattered cloth. The years of neglect! My heart weeps for them.

Aboard, I lie to myself about that uneasy feeling underfoot on the foredeck, 'no not delamination, just some small inconsequential movement'. I can't bare to worry about it now, I have too mucho do elsewhere. The day passes quickly and when finished, the winches are all cleaned and greased, more deck blemishes have been cleaned out and bogged and I have plumbed in the raw water intake siphon on my journey to healthy engine status.

As I load the dinghy I spy a great expanse of mud ashore, the wind, now noreast, is fresh and square to the shore. I've locked my life vest below, but I take a discipline pill and listen to the skipper on me, 'get it on'. I dove below and retrieve it, throw it on and row for home on a broad reach, chilled and contented.