Great Sale Cay, Abacos, Bahamas 26º58.612N | 78º12.954W
You remember that bet we had about how many boats would leave for the U.S. today? Chip said there would be 7 boats left here with us. I said 6.
By noon, we were the very last boat in this large, lonely anchorage. All 11 boats left to cross the Gulf Stream to Florida. Once again, we said bye to Jessie Marie as she set off on Karen's birthday. We hope to meet up with them again in Charleston next week to give Karen her presents.
There was a time when it would have bothered me that we were the only ones who chose to stay. I would have had nagging second thoughts. What do they know that I don't? What if they're right and I'm wrong?
I still might -- and should -- ask those questions, but every day I grow more confident with our decisions. We decided to wait until Monday to cross the Gulf Stream. We are not right. The others are not wrong. We merely made decisions. They made theirs. We made ours. And so we all go in our own time.
Which leaves us with wide open time and space to do our chores, chores made so much more pleasant by our gorgeous surroundings.
First chore: Fix the Dutchman flaking system (lines running through the main sail that make it fold nicely and stay in place when we drop it) that broke coming into this anchorage. Lots of fits and starts (mostly fits) trying to fix that one, but with persistence and patience, we got it done.
Our wide open anchorage leaves us time to ponder returning to our own country, our own culture after being gone for six months. I think about what has changed and, other than the price of gas, I'm pretty sure most of those changes are in me. Looping back around where we came from inevitably leads to retrospection. There's your warning: lots of reflective posts coming.
But most of all, right now in this quiet anchorage, our last in the Bahamas, I'm looking into turquoise water and thinking about how much I'll miss it.
As if the water is feeling a bit melancholy too, it has gone cloudy on me, brilliant turquoise but no longer clear as air. Maybe it's just kindly weaning me off its splendor.
Bye bye turquoise water. How I'll miss you.
 |
| Cara Mia, all alone in Great Sale. |
By noon, we were the very last boat in this large, lonely anchorage. All 11 boats left to cross the Gulf Stream to Florida. Once again, we said bye to Jessie Marie as she set off on Karen's birthday. We hope to meet up with them again in Charleston next week to give Karen her presents.
There was a time when it would have bothered me that we were the only ones who chose to stay. I would have had nagging second thoughts. What do they know that I don't? What if they're right and I'm wrong?
I still might -- and should -- ask those questions, but every day I grow more confident with our decisions. We decided to wait until Monday to cross the Gulf Stream. We are not right. The others are not wrong. We merely made decisions. They made theirs. We made ours. And so we all go in our own time.
Which leaves us with wide open time and space to do our chores, chores made so much more pleasant by our gorgeous surroundings.
First chore: Fix the Dutchman flaking system (lines running through the main sail that make it fold nicely and stay in place when we drop it) that broke coming into this anchorage. Lots of fits and starts (mostly fits) trying to fix that one, but with persistence and patience, we got it done.
Our wide open anchorage leaves us time to ponder returning to our own country, our own culture after being gone for six months. I think about what has changed and, other than the price of gas, I'm pretty sure most of those changes are in me. Looping back around where we came from inevitably leads to retrospection. There's your warning: lots of reflective posts coming.
But most of all, right now in this quiet anchorage, our last in the Bahamas, I'm looking into turquoise water and thinking about how much I'll miss it.
As if the water is feeling a bit melancholy too, it has gone cloudy on me, brilliant turquoise but no longer clear as air. Maybe it's just kindly weaning me off its splendor.
No comments:
Post a Comment