The Writing Desk

How I was slowly seduced

Wed, 30 Oct 2024 04:54:24 GMT

Home is changing: a short story by Anne Barnes

By Anne Barnes (from 'Changing Places: True stories from women on the water' by SisterShip Press 2020)

It happened so gradually I don’t really remember when ‘home’ became a boat, not a house. In the beginning the boat was ‘his’. I was happy that he was happy. I had my own interests and figured he would potter about with his ‘hobby’ while I got on with my terrestrial pursuits.

I did go along occasionally, just for a ride. I sat in the cockpit, looked for dolphins, and then returned ‘home’ at the end of the day considering my tour of duty complete. I took no interest in the maintenance or improvement projects that seemed to provide endless hours of either joy or frustration to my clearly besotted partner. A night aboard now and then was more than enough for me and I scuttled happily ‘home’ to my garden and cheery open fire. My happiness-scales were heavily skewed to land-based activities.

I was busy elsewhere, in the garden perhaps, the first time the boat was hauled out for a bottom scrub. The second time I went along but didn’t do much, I mean, who expects a woman to sand or paint a boat? A house, yes, but a boat? That’s a boy’s toy. By the third haul out I was actively helping, scraping stubborn little barnacles and dabbing antifoul paint here and there. I started to take a little more interest.

I’m not sure when or why I started tagging along more often on trips to the water. Weekends on the mooring or anchored in a quiet bay gradually became more frequent.

I was being ever so slyly seduced; not by my man, not by the water, nor the sky, and definitely not by the boat, but by a combination of them all.

The stillness at night, barely a ripple on the surface of the water. The moon, rising in all her voluptuous, silvery splendour above a silhouetted island, or hanging as a crescent on a black velvet blanket of stars. Dolphins, gliding effortlessly beneath the bowsprit or playing tantalisingly nearby but always just out of camera shot. The warmth of the sun on a winter’s morning, coffee in one hand and a book lying unopened while I sat, content to just ‘be’. The smile of my loved one, as we stood hand in hand on the foredeck, drinking in a sunset as the sky exploded with colour around us. All these elements combined to enchant me, casting a spell that became stronger with time.

Of course, boating is not all dolphins, moonbeams, and sunsets. Far from it.

There were nights when frayed nerves kept me awake as the wind howled through the rigging. Days when the chill of the wind cut through every layer and I struggled to breathe through the heavy woollen scarf I’d wound tightly around my face, only my eyes peeking between it and the thick fleece beanie pulled firmly over my ears. Times when tempers flared and sharp words exchanged as things went pear-shaped, as they do often when you combine human nature with mother nature… and add a boat.

These things only served to strengthen the thread that steadily pulled me seaward. Did the boat seem increasingly smug, bobbing innocently and occasionally tugging at her mooring while we rowed towards her each week? It certainly looked that way.

Weekends were suddenly dedicated to ‘boat time’ and dry bags sat packed and waiting in anticipation for Friday afternoon to roll around. The garden lay neglected. Land-based friends confused by my reluctance to commit to anything non-boat related. “Come to the races with us”, was met with “Sorry, can’t, got boat chores to do”.

Sunday afternoons were filled with gloom and closing the washboards in the cockpit to return ‘home’ became harder. ‘Home’ was no longer ‘home’, but just a house. Somewhere to go in between the real life I had discovered. Somewhere to be endured.

One day in the not-too-distant future, I hope the transition will be complete and the ‘home’ I yearn for all week, will become a reality. In the meantime, I dream, and plan, and endure… and keep that dry bag waiting next to the ‘house’ door, ready to head ‘home’ at every opportunity I get.

Ivy's Escape

Wed, 30 Oct 2024 03:14:36 GMT

A short story by Lanise Edwards

We were well overdue to haul Easter Rose out of the water for antifouling and maintenance. The last time this expensive chore was completed we stayed in a holiday house for three days. This time, with three weeks of hard work ahead of us, we decided to stay onboard. Fortunately, the boatyard in Bundaberg had actual steps rather than a ladder, which made access to the boat possible. A ladder was not going cut it for myself or Ivy, our old Labrador.

The steps were steep and initially Ivy refused to climb them as she could see the ground beneath, this unnerved her. After some consideration we tied shade cloth underneath the steps. Ivy was happy to walk up and down with us following and holding her lead. With that hurdle overcome we began a daily routine of sanding and grinding to prepare the hull for a thorough paint and overhaul. Ivy spent most of her days on a lead sleeping in the cool shade of the boat or on deck as we worked on Easter Rose .

After 10 days on the hardstand Ivy had a good routine and waited for us to escort her down the steps for her morning walk. I guess I became comfortable and secure in the knowledge that Ivy would not attempt the steps alone. l should have known her better. In hindsight it was very likely she had been scheming her ‘great escape’ for several days! This is Ivy’s style, and I underestimated her tenacity and cunning.

One morning I woke early, let Ivy off her lead in the cockpit and ventured back below decks to prepare a well-earned coffee. Still in my mismatched PJs I eventually came back on deck with coffee in hand, noticing Ivy was not in the cockpit. Aching all over from the previous day’s hard work and noticing last night’s shower had not removed residue paint from my hands and feet, I glanced around. Still no sign of Ivy. Surely, she was not brave enough to go down the steps alone? I was mistaken.

As my foggy morning-brain stepped up a gear, I knew I had to act quickly. Our old Labrador was more than capable of sneaking off once my guard was down. And it was. Ivy could not have chosen a worse time! My antifoul splattered body and odd pajamas looked a sight, not to mention my knotted hair also sprinkled with primer and other paint residue.

There was no time to waste, there was a busy road out the front and miles of river and esplanade, not to mention trucks and workmen with forklifts. Ivy could be in danger and oblivious to it. I bolted down the steps without further thought and paced around the large yard peering in every corner. No sign of Ivy. Surely, she could not have gone far? How long had she been gone? I had no idea.

I figured it was early and no one would be around, so I chanced running out onto the road in my PJs. I noticed some workman on the road and asked if they had seen a black Labrador. They glanced at me slightly oddly, I obviously didn’t realise how I looked. They both pointed, stating that she had gone one of two different directions. I was confused and had to take a guess which direction she would head. This meant crossing the road and walking to the esplanade pathway. I scanned up and down and kept calling her name in an increasingly loud, agitated manner, as I became aware that the world was waking and people (normally-dressed people!) were appearing.

Too late to return to the boat, I forged on. Finally, in the far distance, I spotted a black dog near the seafood co-op skip bins. This had to be Ivy. Ivy loves a rotten smell to investigate!

I ran back to the road and towards the co-op. Now many people were present. Some just stared. I must have looked like a madwoman on a mission, covered in weird blue paint with war-like smears of silver primer on my face and in my hair. My mismatched PJs, lack of a bra, and crazed look must have topped it off. I yelled to Ivy as I could see it was definitely her. She froze, and I thought my search was over.

Ivy glanced around, then turned her back to me as if she had no clue who I was and could not hear me. Her hearing is acute; however, she had no intention of stopping or responding. By now I was a woman possessed, frustrated and cranky. I scolded her from a distance and demanded that she, “Come now!” I was infuriated. My voice obviously loud, people enjoying a relaxing morning coffee at the cafe stared. Beyond embarrassment at this point, I was hellbent on catching Ivy before she ate some gruesome morsel of rotten seafood that would result in a very messy aftermath!

I ran quickly towards her, approaching the bins as Ivy snorted, sniffed and kept chewing something revolting on the ground. Still completely ignoring me, she was obviously obsessed with her find. I took advantage and cornered her. Once an arm’s length away Ivy looked up at me as if to say; “Oh I didn’t see you, what’s the problem?” Grimacing I attached her lead and pulled her away from the bins. I had her in my grips and she acted as if she did not have a clue why I was angry or what the drama was!

I marched her back down the road, appearing like an abusive crazy dog owner as I muttered more than a few expletives under my breath. By this time the road was busy, workmen and boat yard staff had arrived. Yachties and locals were strolling by the café, enjoying their morning walks. I wished I could have shrunk into the asphalt as I became excessively aware of my PJ-clad appearance. I trudged back to the boatyard with Ivy.

Entering the yard people were out working on boats. I held my head high and picked up my pace towards Easter Rose , shoving Ivy up the steps and collapsing in the cockpit. It was then that the humourous side of my morning hit me and I began to laugh hysterically. Emerging from the cockpit my husband asked where I had been. I rolled my eyes and replied, “Oh just for a walk!”

POSTSCRIPT:

Sadly in 2020 Ivy crossed the rainbow bridge. She is greatly missed.

Reprinted from "Voyaging Pets: True stories from Women on the Water". Published by SisterShip Press and available from Amazon or www.seascribebooks.com

IN SEARCH OF SUGAR BEACH CAVE

Fri, 06 Aug 2021 05:31:15 GMT

Author Janet Howle on a place-based pilgrimage in the Bahamas

One of my goals during my trip to the Bahamas in April (2021) was to visit the cave that is on the cover of UNCHARTED.

That photo used on the cover was submitted by another sailor but I wanted to stand in this place for myself. Many of you may know that a cave—not actually the one on the cover of the book—is a critical element in the climax in the novel.

After checking in at West End on Grand Bahama Island, we crossed to the north end of the Berry Islands and through the cut to Great Harbor Cay (first called Manalapan Island). Now, if you haven’t been there, getting to the marina is in itself is a boating adventure. No matter how good your GPS is, the cut is nearly invisible until you make the final turn outside.

The water is shallow and takes a leap of faith to stay on course. There are markers, sort of. However, hang on, it’s worth it and one of the best hurricane holes in the Bahamas – should you need one.

The marina is all Bahamian. That means a bit rustic, lots of local color, all the cruisers necessities, and an abundance of friendly dock and office staff. From Steve Johnson, general manager, to dock staff including Miko, Quincy, and Kinsley and of course, China, in the office who will take your credit card and answer any and all questions about this remote location including gossip about former celebrities who have hung out here over the years. (There is a Bardot beach, named for…?)

So, my go-to was China. I showed her the book and told her I wanted to visit the cave.

“Dat be Sugar Cave on the east side.” She handed me a map and said, “No problem. Just go to the road, take a left. Don’t take da next left. Dat take you to da town of Bullock’s Harbor. You stay on the road until you find the turn-off to the right, which has a sign Cave, or maybe there not be a sign. You can’t get lost, just one road run da whole length of da island.”

Next question. “Can I walk there?”

Answer. “Da island a bit over 7 miles, probably 6 to da cave.” (At this point she looked me over) “I suggest you rent, yourself a car from Mr. Ramsey. I’ll call him.”

So, a car it was. It wasn’t hard to follow the road, as China said, there is only one. However, it turned out the road to the cave was indeed not marked. The road ended in a cul du sac at the end of the island and if we got that far without spotting it, we’d turn around and search again on the way back. But before we reached the end, we came upon a vehicle stopped in the middle with two locals chatting with construction guys. We decided to ask if they knew the road to Sugar Beach cave.

Answer: “You passed it. There is a road with a sign, marked Cave, or maybe there isn’t a sign.” Had we heard this before? “Well, never mind. Turn your car around and we’ll take you there.”

Sweet. They did lead us to a road—more like a footpath overgrown with weeds—there was no sign, but one of the woman assured us this was the place. She pulled off the road, got out of her car and kindly asked us, “You got shoes? You need to watch the rocks they’re jagged limestone and slippery. (Did everyone think I was old and feeble?) When you come to the beach, go to the left and you see a sort of cliff. Dat be da cave. It be low tide, so you probably can go right in it. Now be careful.”

I digress. I couldn’t figure out how to lock the car but decided it wasn’t in any danger. Who could hide a stolen car on an island 7 miles long and at the widest point, 2.5 miles wide?

Believe me, it was well worth the effort. The beach is beautiful and secluded with water that goes from light turquoise to dark sapphire. A swim would follow, but I was eager to get to the cave which was just a very short walk to the left as promised.

We were the only ones there and I was able to stand in the cave and look out at the scene from the cover of UNCHARTED (minus the sailboat). Then a photo opportunity with me holding the book in my hand. I lingered and took more photos than I will ever need. And while this cave looks out on a tranquil ocean, I could imagine what Kat and Carter felt when they entered the cave on South Andros, not knowing where it would lead.