'A blog about living close to the earth as experienced by one girl.'='viewport'/> Francesca Whyte - mothersisterloverme -: December 2010

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

A Day At Sea

Days pass rapidly, cut and ordered by the steering shift, yet once at the wheel time drags interminably and my mind is immediately consumed by what I will do when I am relieved. Sometimes by night I feel a gathering sense of rhythm, feeling the beat and movement of the boat as the sea and wind direct her, and I the guide. A warmth often creeps over me in the realisation of personal pleasure in doing a job well. My feet and legs wet, my face brushed by the fine, warm rain from the sky. I stay dry inside my jacket and am overtaken by a sense of complete comfort, able to stand for many moments; soles wedged either side of the cockpit as the sea with rain became soft and limpid, accepting the downfall with grace.  The baby growing inside me adding to my sense of content.
We catch fish, tuna mainly. My husband crouches on the stern, his toes clinging to the faded teak, his backbone to the sun. The fish lie helpless, prone, by the fingers forced into his fisheyes. The Captain plunges his knife through the rough skin, before straightening and flinging the guts into the wind. He squeezes the silky sack of the stomach, squirting baby squids and small fish over the deck, some flipping their way back into life, into the sea. The heart pulses on his palm and he offers it to us, those who feel game enough to bite. His face seems wind blown even below deck, the eyes glow green like the sea. As I grow rounder he grows more lean, his body lithe and elongated by a life of travel. I heave buckets of water over the deck and watch blood and scales scattering, spilling back into the sea. The fish head is carelessly flung overboard and the clean fillets, civilised now on a plate, passed down for a meal.
As the afternoon closes the cook steps easily out of the cockpit. He slaves over the stove, bracing himself between the sink and the burning gas top, stirring, sweat dripping from his brow. His long blond hair pulled back into a braid, he emerges to chuck the empty cans over the side. Soon, heaped bowls are passed up and then he steps up, already eating, all of us shirtless into the cockpit which feels cool after the cavern below deck. Sun sets as we finish and we all turn to try and glimpse the 'green flash' as the sun sinks below the sea. Sailors have always talked of it as an illumination, a feast to behold if only you can stare at the exact moment of the sun melting. Too soon and you are blinded by the burning disc, too late, and it has gone. Three oceans and years of twisting and staring into sun have brought only one given 'flash'. A 'flash' which was so disappointing that it immediately lost any mysticism that it may have held. But it is a tradition, one that we continue to do. 
My hands instinctively reach for handholds, the ropes, and the curvature of the deck, pulling me into place. Steadily moving along in liquid movements, as the boat moves with the swell. Each of us have sat at the bow, backs pressed against the dinghy, our legs stretched out. Scales shining in the invincible sunlight, the odour of flying fish lingering. It is one of the few places where the sea is the only sight, rippling into the horizon. I like to turn back, looking along the boat to the cockpit where the three boys seem so small and inconsequential, encased in the plastic glass. A ridiculous safety zone. Anytime spent outside the cockpit soon ends with a leap and a settling into position, a noise of relief involuntarily escaping, as feet brace themselves against familiar beams.