This time next week, I shall be camping up in the Lake District. I’ve been going to Summer Camp there since I was 11 as a camper, graduating to staff status at the age of 19. My first year of staff, I was assigned to the sailing crew. Captain of the good ship ‘Custard’ (a custard coloured Wayfarer that went as fast as its namesake), wind conditions that year were especially tricky. One day I was taking two of the girls out during their dorm’s lesson, and they almost deafened me with their screeches of ‘we’re going to dieeeeeeeeee!!!!!!’ when the wind picked up. This poem was written in their honour.
They didn’t die, I got them both safely back to shore, and they only got wet because it started to rain too.
SailingWe drift slowly, Angling to catch, The whisper of a breeze. Lake like a millpond, Surface barely rippled, By our meandering wake. A roaring in the trees, And like a Mexican wave, Boats’ sails billow closer and closer. Waves halfway up the bow, We catch the wind, Start to race, start to tip. I lean out, Fighting tiller and sheet, Trying to restore our balance. My crew screams, I yell orders, Water pours over the side. We turn her, Manage to slow, Manage to straighten. The gust passes, The wave drop, And we stop.
I’m guestimating that we did 15 miles today. Was a lovely walk, sunny, gentle breeze, especially when I managed to drop my drink and squeezed it too hard as I grabbed for it and soaked my trousers =S