here there be dragons

Casting off the moorings tethering me tightly to the shore, I gave a sharp kick to the pier. Off we drifted - the mast resplendent in the rising sun. With so little wind and current just as weak, I wondered where we might drift or whether we’d get far at all.

Hell, I guess I could always row. Not that I minded to row from time to time. Sometimes the exertion was therapeutic, an enema for polluted thoughts that betrayed the honesty of raw labor. I had been encouraged by the previous owner to install a small outboard engine for these moments, but I said I wouldn’t. “No, I couldn’t put an outboard on this old boat. All wood and brass and sail is what I want. I like my things solid,” I had said. He could tell I meant it and for a moment looked strangely, deeply satisfied.

But rowing is real work. Particularly, when you don’t know where you are heading. Spend yourself too deeply rowing out of the calm and there may be nothing left to give when it’s rough. I’ve learned that lesson a few times.

Hmmm. I could feel the restless tension begin. Only a few yards off of the dock, maybe it makes more sense to wait for better weather and just soak in the sun. Such pure, azure sky.

Was I adequately provisioned? I had thought to acquire stocks in either Sakonnet or Kiptopeke before journeying in earnest, but my hasty departure and this damnable calm may leave me ill supplied for even this first leg. And well provisioned I would need to be. It’s difficult enough to sail off the map, but doing so hungry is altogether different. Just ask Columbus.

Hmmm. Best decide before dark. Staring into the placid drink, I can’t help but think to my uncertain destination – here there be dragons.