Domestic contentment, I call this.
If you look closely, to left of centre in his photograph, you'll see the flames through the open fire door of our little wood stove.
It's a comfortable boat to spend all day on, while the weather huffs and puffs.
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I was cold. So I made myself a hot breakfast of chicken-burger plus toast with cumquat marmalade, and 2 cups of coffee made on our woodstove with the Italian coffee maker; and before that I lit the wood fired stove, and before that - dressed warmly. It is Summer, but the wind is mainly out of the west, and cold. The stove is has warmed the boat which rocks occasionally to 25 knot gusts, but now lies still. The kettle speaks wisps of steam, waiting for me to wash up.
I'm alone, at least as regards human company. We, the oceangoing ketch and I, are at anchor in Cygnet, Southern Tasmania, my wife in Hobart for 2 days; all is still, my mind and I at rest.
The country around is beautiful, farms riding pulsing hills, shining waters, clutter of moored boats, little boatsheds and a hauled out 1905-built Irish yacht of classic shape Granuaille, named for an 18th century pirate queen. Yesterday I had coffee on board her, guest of chutzpah heroes Steve and Zara, and looked out at the sunshine through a temporary window of missing planks and new ribs, the lovely old yacht gutted, in midst of radical surgery.
In the night, a rain so light it sounded of the falling of the finest gravel or the knocking of a thousand tiny angels trying not to wake me; now so quiet I can hear the clock stepping out the seconds, here on the chart table. The sun leans in, slapping down light, and sliding it around.
Don't envy me; instead try this ten-second exercise - Say to yourself:
"This Moment Is Perfect" - and then search for evidence of this incontrovertible fact. You will be pleasantly surprised.
It's raining harder now - shut the hatch.
Reading The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak, yesterday, rubbed my metaphor bottle and heated it to nearly one thousand degrees, releasing a writing genie! Selecting paper and pen, I allowed words to arrive, let them scratch visible traces, allowed them to be me, so to speak. I diffidently transcribe them here:
1
Jollied into doing things
a husband tracks in money's footsteps
his mind left behind - reading,
or writing, a book.
(Writer's block
merely a refusal
to look in the right direction.)
The novelist
is the one
who can hold his breath underwater for longest.
I stayed down for forty pages!
2
The older I get
The younger I get!
Joy is seeping
through all the cracks
The smell
of the back of my hand
is the best, ever.
The thought that passed
just now
Who is there who would understand it?
Should I have simply
written it down?
3
A Japanese banjo-player
flanked by a young woman (violin)
and a young man (guitar, left-handed)
gurgled in the dim light.
We sat upright in our chairs.
It was not enough
4
Utterly eventless
the day proves itself
strikingly extraordinary.
I was there!
Did I hear a cow?
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There is, as usual around this time, a lot of talk about the real meaning of Christmas, and the ministers of religion take their roles seriously and give their official views. The Queen gives her Message (I must admit I only watched it once, and that was decades ago). My dad once commented that Christmas was "bad temper time", and most of us would admit there is a lot of Christmas-associated stress within the family, what with food prep, gift buying, holiday travel arrangements, etc, etc. We lose it, we drink more, or eat too much - and we try to have a good time, yet often it IS a blessed time too.
For me the best moment of all was seeing the Christ Child. It happened in Windmills toy shop in Hobart, where Adrienne and I were looking for a present for our granddaughter, Belle. We fell into discussion with a lovely young mother who had a two-year-old and a 9-month-old baby crawling at her feet. While she was telling us of the toy we had chosen and how her two-year-old had loved it I was watching her baby daughter as her mum picked her up; the baby was looking at me with unbroken attention, as curious about me as I was about her! We said nothing to each other as I touched her outstretched finger, but much was exchanged. Communication unhindered.
It was only afterwards, recalling her face, that I said to Adrienne I saw the Christ child! The little ones' face, her whole attitude, reflected a natural trust, utter openness, total fearlessness, and in that moment I saw it - how can I explain it otherwise - the Christ Child.
I can feel tears starting behind my eyes now.
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Saturday is my shift, from 1100 to 1500, when I sit at this desk with with up to 9 transceivers at my fingertips - HF and VHF. Weather is read at 1345 and notices to mariners, and then call-ins from boats, mostly local, but sometimes out in the Tasman Sea. There'll be more while the Sydney - Hobart race is on; I got a call from one of these yachts today, called Kiss Goodbye To MS, for a radio check.
I feed the colourful rosellas, read a book, drink tea, eat fruit cake. Sometimes the fishermen (often alone) working the south coast or the east coast report their positions. Their voices sound different to those of the pleasure sailors.
There are no strong wind warnings today. The typical forecast reads:
Winds: North to northeasterly 10 to 15 knots. Seas: Below 1 metre. Swell:
Southwesterly about 1 metre. Swell: Northeasterly 1 metre. The chance of
thunderstorms this afternoon and evening. The chance of fog this afternoon andevening with reduced visibility.
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We have decided NOT to sell Bluebottle. We are living on board right now and it's great. Some time soon we will set off on another voyage, after refitting the old girl. In the meantime there is work to be done, both on the boat and on our financial situation.
We'll work it out.
Photo: The dream. Approaching Moorea, a beautiful island with coral reef and turquoise lagoon, an easy day's sail from Tahiti. We visited twice, needing to go back to Papeete for our clearance out of French Polynesia.
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Flue wrapped in wire and pie plate...
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