Gone Coastal

November 9, 2008 · Filed Under Gone Coastal

23:40

The closeness of the water around us is not to be easily dismissed. Where I lay to find the comfort of sleep is most certainly below the waterline with only a thin metal shell dividing my repose from the deep watery world spreading beyond the curve of the earth.

There are seventeen souls aboard the schooner. Four of us; myself, two other women sailors and Ed my husband, berth in the focsle — sleeping, reading, resting or seeking solitude behind powder blue lee cloths. The space is about the size of a mini-van. We sailors live close, not just to the water, but to each other in our home in the bigger world of an 92-foot schooner. The berths, two high on each side separated by a walk-through to the forepeak, nearly always hold a sleeper curled amongst their belongings. Sailors lay in their space with pillows, books and clothes — both clean and those peeled off after the last watch. Damp shirts, wet with sweat from overheating or cold with clinging gray fog, lay folded in anticipation of a second use or balled up for a third undetermined need to be used again. In an attempt to keep my space livable and to dull the shock of the frigid steel in an otherwise warm space I line my clothes against the hull.

Few words are uttered from the berth. They are almost always spoken in hushed tones, abrupt and to the point. “It’s time to go on watch,” seems to be the only appropriate phrase to be voiced above a whisper.
We enjoy no conversation here, only respectful silence washed in a red glow to save our night vision or to preserve the darkness found behind our masked eyes. We find sleep here anytime in spite of the relentless noise of a moving ship and in spite of the snoring. A constant cacophony of vibrating adenoids, gasps to revive from apnea and purring lips comes from a relay of thirteen heavily sleeping men is an audio testament that we women are outnumbered.

In my small berth, the size of a futon, the dominate sound is the sea giving way, slipping past to the port most closely, but engulfing the tiny bubble of safety inside our boat. Add to that the distant drone of the diesel aiding our progress, its incessantly familiar hum removed from my consciousness. With all this noise, a din of propulsion and sleeping men, it is silent here when compared to life ashore. My ears quickly become numbed to it all lest a sudden, unexpected thud, clank or word stirs me from my heavy sleep.

Whomp! (to be continued)