Written Memories

 I’ve mentioned many time about the importance of writing as a means of preserving memories. The following bit of prose/poetry speaks to a weekend that Sandy and I shared with friends on a borrowed sailboat, a 35 foot Sloop, named Grand Slam by its owner who had a passion for the game of Bridge. Of note, he, Steve, is now deceased, our friend Lynda is also deceased, and Andy is suffering from Alzheimers and dwells somewhere between here and hell. But the memory of a better time remains as if yesterday….

Weekend On A Borrowed Sloop 

Thanksgiving.
Was it in the 1980s,
Iʼm not certain?
It may have been in the 1990s?
No matter.

I do remember though that it was Thanksgiving. 

A borrowed sloop
was to be our weekend home. 

I recall that it was a crisp,
sunny, autumn day, that day 

that we headed out onto Georgian Bay. 

We made good time, and spent 

a damp, cold night,
anchored at Beausoleil Island’s harbour. 

With the dawnʼs early light, we cast off, 

and set sail for Bone Island. 

We made good time,
and with & tack, or two, 

we were out in open water. 

As I watched from the stern of our weekend home,
a storm blew in. The blue sky 

turned to shades of grey, and 

the wind came up, whipping the the water
into large white capped waves. 

The trees along the distant shore bent almost to the ground,
and some, long spent from previous storms, 

hung close and kissed the ground. 

With a reef in the main we steered a steady course, 

and soon found ourselves,
in the safety of Bone Islandʼs harbour.

Anchor set, and feeling quite safe, 

we went ashore, and pitched our tent. 

All night long the wind blew strong, 

and howled a mournful sound. 

In the morning we must head home, 

or so weʼre told,
so with the jib lashed to the deck,
a double reef in the main, 

we lifted anchor,
and set sail for open water. 

Heeled over as if to tip, and 

with the bow up into the wind, 

we beat our way to open water. 

Georgian Bay that day caused us to wish, 

that weʼd stayed another day anchored,
in the safety of Bone Islandʼs harbour. 

The white-capped waves were long and tall,

 and the cold wind, tinged with snow,
howled in the rigging. 

There were moments, tense moments, some screaming,
and some yelling, but experience prevailed, 

out in the open water. 

“Come about” was the call,
and with the jib set to “wing and wing”, 

we flew down the gap, and somehow,
made it safely to Midland’s Harbour. 

Now, Iʼm old and grey,
and havenʼt sailed much since,
but given the chance,
come autumn -

Iʼd never again sail 

on Georgian Bay waters! 

EAS