Lost Sailor – Chapter 2

Lost Sailor – Chapter 2

“Jerry,
Winter Harbour,
Thursday night,
Be there!
– Brandy”
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I must have read that note thirty times before the message sank into my head. Brandy had left without so much as a “Good-bye”. Even just a hint of why she’d sailed out of the cove so early in the morning would have made me feel better.

Winter Harbour. Shit, how I hated that place. With the draft of my 32-foot sloop, the only time of day that I could safely enter or leave that harbour was at high tide, just as it turned. At any other time, the solid basalt reef that protected the cove beyond, would rip the keel off before I knew it.

Despite my loathing of that sheltered moorage, I decided that I probably would take the chance and go. What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe get my heart broken again? As that state was already becoming an ongoing lifestyle anyway, one more round wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Besides, there was just something about Brandy Bendall that felt so damned compelling. Her warmth, and something I couldn’t label, combined to draw me to her like a moth to flame. Sure, I could forget her, if I had to. I’d been left behind so many times before by other women that it was starting to feel like that was my destiny. It was just that those few hours of feeling connected to another human being, of actually mattering to someone, were as addictive as crack cocaine.

So here I was, standing on the deck, trying to get my head to function again. This girl must have had me under some sort of a spell. I had no idea if the tide was in or out, or even which way it was going. Trying to sail out of here at low tide would be fatal, and I knew it. But the thoughts of being with Brandy again had taken over my sense of reason. I was all set to pull up anchor and leave right then, and to hell with the rocks, the currents, and the dangers!

Those aren’t the things someone that wants to see another sunrise should be thinking. The sea is a fickle mistress. Show her the respect she deserves, and she’ll cradle you with warmth and protection; piss her off, and she’ll crush you so fucking fast . . . .

It took me almost fifteen minutes to ascertain that the tide was going out, and that I was too late to safely leave. I was stuck here until sometime in the late evening, and even then I’d be sailing at night. Not a good idea, especially in these waters. I resigned myself to being held captive until the following morning. That would still give me two days to make Winter Harbour. Plenty of time, I realized, even if I had to make the trip using only the auxiliary.

Well, even though I’ve been sailing these waters for many years, I got impatient by the time the day was winding down. Not “stupid crazy” impatient, but definitely antsy. As soon as the tide was high enough, I fired up the auxiliary and headed out into the channel. There was maybe a couple of hours of daylight left. Not quite enough time to make it to Queen’s Cove, but I’d get close. I’d be able to set sail early the next morning, and even if the winds died, I’d still be able to make landfall near Winter Harbour by Thursday afternoon. After that, it was just a matter of waiting for high tide for the leg into the harbour itself. That was assuming that a certain 28-foot sloop was already moored there.

The trip to Winter harbour was relatively uneventful. Winds were from the south-west at about twenty knots. Just enough to set the spinnaker sail and let Mother Nature do the hard part. Put some miles behind me. I probably could have made Winter that night, if it had been necessary. But I learned a long time ago that rushing was the fastest way to get a person in trouble. Knowing how strong that calling to be with Brandy again was, I was already in enough trouble. No sense taking unnecessary chances now.

I slept in the following morning. Maybe it was the gentle roll of the boat as the waves slowly rocked me. Maybe it was that delicious feeling of laziness that a lack of a schedule induces. Maybe it was not having a care in the world.

Maybe it was the dreams of Brandy that kept me in bed. Remembering making love to her on the deck got my cock all excited. Softly stroking myself while those memories drifted around in my head was pure pleasure. The thought of holding her in my arms, feeling the softness of her skin against mine, the swell of her breasts under my hands, tasting the sweetness of her juices as I lay harboured between her silky thighs, having her cunt demand my manhood, sharing our climaxes together. Those were some things that I cold really get used to.

But laying at anchor wasn’t going to make those dreams come true. There were almost forty miles between me and that harbour. With a decent wind, I’d make the trip in three or four hours. After that, it was a matter of waiting; waiting for the tide, waiting for the sounder to map the moorages. And waiting for a certain 28-foot sloop to arrive. My whole day was going to be a case of “hurry up and wait”.

A leisurely breakfast filled in some of the time. Cleaning out the cabin, checking and tuning the rigging consumed some more of it. I hoisted the sails just as the Klayquot ferry rounded the point on its way north. That would make it about noon. Five hours from now and the tide would almost be high enough to scoot straight into the harbour itself, and it would be light enough to find a decent spot to drop anchor. It was that last wait, the one until Brandy was back in my arms, that would fray my nerves like an old piece of manilla line.

They say that the best plans of mice and men often go astray. In my case, it was any plans. I was close to the half-way point when the wind died. Instantly. I’d been making good time, and it was a gorgeous day. Between the sun and the gurgling of the wake behind me, it was almost hypnotic. I guess I must have dozed off for a bit, because it was the snap of the mainsail luffing that brought me back to reality. There wasn’t a breath of air anywhere, and the sea was like glass all around me. In fact, the only thing moving was the gentle roll of waves that had started thousands of miles away in the middle of the Pacific as they prepared themselves to break on the Island’s west coast. Unless I fired up the auxiliary, about the only place I was going was onto the beach, as those Pacific travellers pushed me in with the tide.

It took a while to convince the little Perkins diesel that it was time to go back to work. Once underway again, I looked at the chronometer in the cabin, only to find that it was almost 4:00 PM. Shit! I still had three hours to go, and that would mean I’d miss the high tide I needed. Not a major set-back, but a damned nuisance. I’d have to anchor outside the harbour, then wait for the morning tide.

The little auxiliary ran best at three-quarter throttle, and that’s where I set it. At that speed, I was making a whole six knots, about half what I’d make under sail. The inconvenience was tolerable; the racket from the little engine wasn’t. But it did get me to the harbour entrance just before last light.

This was a deep section of water, and it took me four passes to get the Danforth anchor to grab anything. By the time it did, I had almost four hundred feet of anchor line run out. One good gust in the night and it might pull free. There was nothing for it but to plan on an all-night vigil. Once everything was as secured as I could get it, I sat back on the deck, and leaned against the aft storage locker that usually served as a seat. The same one Brandy had claimed when she first came aboard.

I must have either dozed off or daydreamed. Either way, I never heard the bump of the skiff as it touched my hull.

“Hey there, stranger” a familiar voice called me. “You hiding out here, or you coming in to keep me company?” I almost jumped out of my shorts!

“Brandy!” I screamed. Rolling over to gaze past the stern flag mast, my eyes were met with the prettiest sight this old sailor had seen in a long time.

“Permission to come aboard,, Captain” she requested.

“Permission granted, sailor.