Strong Island
Switching the tiller from hand to hand, I change seats in the cockpit and come about. Fresh wind fills the mains’l as I take hold of the mainsheet and hike out over the water to keep my boat at an even keel. Sea Gypsy’s lap-straked hull glides over the slight chop, sailing effortlessly onward with her bow pointed due south as I head for the channel marker. We are one, Sea Gypsy and me. I feel her pull before the mainsheet tightens in my grip, and I always know when she’s bored and wants to run, just as I know when she’s tired and wants to list. I plant my feet on her floorboards, and it’s as if I’ve grown a mast and boom, her tightened sailcloth serving as my skin with her guiding tiller, my conscience.
Her sweet lines fold around me, and though I’ve never afforded her a cu
