The Night Race

We spot it heading out, a fourteen-foot sloop, one mast, two sails, a solitary figure in the stern, the reflection of the sun bouncing back and forth between thickening sky and water, blinding us to any distinctive features. But the joy with which the small craft leaps forward, the smart handling of her sails, lift our sedentary hearts with the promise of the afternoon. As a wave smacks the hull, we taste the sea, feel its froth on our cheeks, and stand up from our camp chairs, move near the edge of the headlands, and stand moored together with binoculars and heavy slickers. Suddenly we're not birders anymore, we are sailors again.

After my illness, we'd sold our own sweet sloop; two years of hard recovery had worn me down, emotionally stranded both of us. Family clamored for us to move west, to this coast, leave the cold exhilaration of Lake Superior. In truth, we'd become afraid. It wasn't sailing which had injured us, it was my near death. We turned cautious, such that venturing out on the water left us paddlers, land huggers, mere water pedestrians.

Sailing should not be a pedestrian activity. Rather, it is intended to be heart pounding, breath catching thrills, meant to take place in the most hostile environment, under nature's ever shifting rules and moods. You can't dictate to nature, you can only work hard at sliding beside her, using your skill with sail and tiller, tacking and wrenching yourself towards shore, like a thief cheating death every time.

Our addiction had been for sailing on Lake Superior in the threat of storm. Superior, as big as any inland sea, big damn expanding sea beyond the ever expanding horizon. To survive the physical endurance demanded, required everything you had in you and then some. And every time, the game began all over, and was never the same, not once.

Now watching the little sailboat racing out there amidst wave and wind, adds to our pleasure as we resettle into unpacking our picnic on this well worn spot. At this of time of year and hour we have this space to ourselves, up on the high headlands, looking out over where the river, the estuary and the bay meet and merge, before dumping into the Pacific. From here, we have an extensive view of never ending wave and sky, melding on the horizon to one dark line. The sailboat is heading west by northwest, and its slight bouncing and tilting brings smiles to our faces.

Once a sailor, always a sailor? The scent of the sea, the breezes shifting and playing with our jackets and caps, the waves pushing us while we pushed back, were all too familiar. We miss it, so much so that we no longer say it out loud. Instead, we are drawn to watch this other soul's progress into the wilds.

"She might have left it a little late to head out."

"Depending on how far or how long she's going to be out."

"The tide will be against her, it could change in the next couple of hours. She could have a hell of a time tacking and beating all the way back in."

"That is if she's coming back here."

"Where else could she go? There's nothing much for miles."

"Maybe she's sailing for miles. Look at how sweet she goes."

And now, though we are stuck on land, very much a part of us is with the shrinking outline of the lovely little boat as it heads towards the horizon. She is a speedy thing, light, flying across the water, cutting through waves, going up and over, running between the long lines. Exhilarating. Yes, this is breath-catching, pulse-racing, and we are out there with her intrepid captain, feeling the same heart-pounding joy, body pulsating with awe at our own daring.

"Do you think she's out for a joy ride, or heading home? Where do you think she puts up for the night?"

"Maybe that little harbor, you know, that town Mary is so crazy about that huddles between the road and river. It has docks and a boat club. It's only about five miles up from here. Funny name."

"Wanderer's Roost. You're right, Mary raves about it. Her brother's family docks their houseboat in the little harbor. Have we been there?"

"We drove through late, couple of years ago. When the coast highway was closed, remember, because of that big slide. The detour took us east. No lights were on as we crawled through town. The speed limit, 20 miles per hour! We didn't stop. But I did see a sign for the boat club."

"Ah, yes. There was a tavern, also. But it was closed. Everything was closed."

A different life now, than when we were sailers. I like to think about such things, different lives chosen, because of course while it's all random, we do make choices, and regardless of where we thought they'd lead, they lead someplace else entirely. Like us, here. Sitting on a bare headland, a mile walk to the coast from where we'd parked the station wagon. Jeans and long rain slickers, thick sweaters underneath, warm socks and waterproof hiking boots. Even the station wagon, all fits our role as senior birders. Counting the bird populations on our county's headlands has become our sporting event.

Glancing out I see the sloop is gone. I wish her well and safe landing.

In the cold of dusk, we enjoy our picnic dinner, hot chowder from the thermos, a sip of whiskey, while we watch the moving layers of clouds arrive near sunset. They swell up in piles on the horizon and then rapidly invade the sky, hide the moon, send birds scuttling low across the waves and inward to roost.

"It's gone too far or a squall out there is hiding it from us."

The brave little sloop and her courageous captain stay on our minds, our eyes ever moving out towards the last spot on the horizon we'd caught a flash of her sails in the sun. Why we love sunsets, why people are drawn to sunsets on the coast, is how long they last, until the last bit of light has disappeared, and even then, there remains a radiance at the horizon. Tonight there is to be a super moon, but rain is also promised. And these rain clouds are playing havoc with a prolonged sunset, though they add their own beauty, the many shades of black and gray, the pumping of clouds coming into shore, rolling overhead. But they have shut down early the display of gold and crimson, amber and mauve.

Hopefully, the sailboat had arrived where she wanted to dock for the night.

"We could go now."

But we don't, we need to know the fate of our friend out there, fourteen feet and two sails battling against the wind, the tides, the weather.

"Wait, there she is."

I have to follow your finger, head against your shoulder to site down your arm. Then I can pick her up with my binoculars. The moon suddenly finds an opening. To show the way? To watch her futility against nature? A small flock of seagulls are moving with her, shepherding or guiding.

She is heading back here, the strong wind from the north helping her, even as it plays at tipping, throwing her over. Such is the thrill of races, against all odds, leaning, leaning, changing, shifting, plying, steering towards home. She is doing that now, and between spray and squall we catch glimpses of her. Even as night is upon us, and we barely see to the edge of the cliff, we quick-catch a glimpse of her sail, still whole and leaning taut.

"Too far out. Too far out. Look, she nearly went under!"

The moon highlights for two seconds the game at play, then we see nothing, only hear the wind and pounding, so loud the cry of the seagulls is lost as well. We see enough, though, to realize the ship is still a good ways out and the rocks are high and range along the coast and inlets.

"You'd need to know these coasts blindfolded to get in now."

"Should we call someone? Can't we do something?"

There is no reception out here on the headlands, a problem everyone knows. My stomach is clenching with fear, and we hold hands tight, huddling inside our water slickers, leaning against each other, our feet in our boots frozen to this spot on the rock and rough grass.

We are part of the storm now, part of the duel going on out there, tuned to the sense of danger and purpose driving the sailor, the strength stretching every limb. All thought of the long walk back to the car, the blackness of the land behind us, a yearning for the heater and the comfortable seats in the car, all forgotten.

It is then, at the moment when time, space, weather, distances are crooked and fragmenting for our brave foolish friend, the blackness of land and sea too close for comfort, that lights suddenly appear on the opposite headland. A large beam is being aimed down towards the river's wide opening. Several lanterns are being held high and swung in short arches to call attention. We can make out parts of shadows and bodies in the dark and flickering of lights. His friends have arrived? Or others on that side have been watching and are better prepared then we to provide help?

Then the clouds part and the full moon lights up the water not too far out from shore, and there is the sloop, the straining figure in her highlighted in stark shadows. We see the sailor's head back, the pull on the sail as it battles the wind. Less than a hundred yards.

"Quickly, you can do it."

We are shouting out in the wind, in tune with the strangers on the other side, when the rain commences in earnest. And then there is a lag in the rain. The strangers with all the lights are suddenly jumping up and down, leaving their headland. Did she make it?

We stare hard downward, but I can see nothing.

"I think I saw the white of her sail. A sail."

We use our phones' flashlights to locate our small cooler, the waterproof bag that holds the rest of our gear, and fold the two camp chairs. Each caring a chair over a shoulder, we shift the other items between our four hands, and walk with care, following the small headlights of our phones. Through vetch and grasses, between herbs and shrubbery, the sandy path takes us where we need to go. The heater and heated seats in the car are our reward, and we sit inside, catching our breath, replaying each stage of the sailboat's flight, possible plight. Then we smoke a small pipe, but not too much. I suggest a change in our normal return trip.

"Let's take the road east. But we'll get home way past our bedtime."

"I won't tell anyone, if you won't."

"Live life dangerously for a change?"

"Yes. And if that tavern at the boat club is ever open, it should be tonight. What do you think, can we share a pint?'

When we'd learned to sail, an old character, a sailor for a century he'd claimed, gave us a short lecture on the seriousness of sailing.

"You can't pause for a pint, now, mate, the suns going down and the sea is racing us, driving us. At such times, you can't pause even for a sip. Wait for that when you get to shore."

If the tavern is open, we will share a pint. If the hooligans from the other headland are there and if the sailor reached shore? Well, we'll buy them all a pint.