16 avril 2017 - Fairtransport
Wind wind, wind wind wind. It blows hard here, bending the azorien palms, and it’s sound effects- whistling stays, creaking mooring lines, hauling wind mills. It swipes over our safe haven island Fajal with an ocean gathered strength, and pulls on my nerves like a cello tuned by a butcher.
Such a fragile home we’ve got. 10 Months out of 12 it’s tossed around on the waves, half in the sea half in the sky. Yet in 5 months of sailing, soft or rough, land has been our only danger. The sea is my refuge. Does this make me a sailor?
Cast off the lines and let the world go to hell.
2 More weeks will bring a stop to a journey that seemed endless in time, or better said – the end of which I could not imagine.
So total is life at sea on an engineless sailing ship, engulfed in a nature beyond that which was meant for men.
So simple is my existence here – stay on the boat, feel the wind. And how do I go back to the social pollution of society?
On our ship every sound has a meaning, a reason and a reaction called for. The sails speak to you, telling ‘pull’ or ‘ease’ ; the wind says ‘brace’, ‘ set sails’ or ‘ douse’.
Visual and noise pollution in harbour and cities is overwhelming to me now. Did I sail across the ocean to return to this?
Have I changed and now must plunge into car exhausts church bells led screens and selfies once more?
Cast away from sea to land.
God have mercy for those lost at sea, for they had to go out again, not to be lost on land.
Second mate Shimra
It’s midnight, we wake up. It’s morning light outside! We can clearly see. The deck, the water surrounding us, the faces of my shipmates, the horizon melting in thousands of colors of blue. The moon goes to sleep, the other watch also. We’re alone on deck with a very light breeze. We’re like an evolution […]
Paint and stain possible on this beautiful day. All sails are up, even the jib that the kids painted in Amsterdam. We sat her under the mainsail. We call it the ‘dolphin sail’. Some of the crew members enjoyed cooking yesterday while Soraia had a day off. Her pastas, oignons beignets, pizzas, lasagna and vegetables […]
Fingers grab the outer jib sheet … Are they mine? Hands feel the curiosity Of last year’s boson The mumbling drums of this refit And that refit Echoes of detachment sweat That rinsed all those backs Shaped all those minds Into a pale blue line Man, just had this crazy dream Was it mine? Boots […]