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