frolic on feisty

 Like a gust that blows a yacht from pleasure-sailing to a racing-heel, so too do our boating lives fluctuate. We gust between the idyllic moments, kicking back in the sun, naked, kids frolicking in the water, tunes on the stereo, no-one around for miles; to moments of the stormiest marital stress. Typically you'll observe Captain Dad suggesting raising more and bigger sails, while First Mate Mama hyperventilates in panic. We've made so many mistakes in the few trips we've done on Feisty, and we're painfully aware that we've only just begun this rocky road. Or rough sea's, as one might have it. 

During the last week of school holidays, we took Feisty out for another sojourn, again up to the Myall Lakes. We had hoped to explore new waterways further afield, but for a variety of reasons, we settled on the Myall Lakes. Once again, we found ourselves packing in a tizzy on the day of departure. This meant that we didn't leave until after dinner. And we were putting her in the water around 9pm.

 Cue, massive shout out to the Grandparentals who fed us and shuttled us to our departure point. 

For seven nights we pootled around the lakes, reflecting that our confidence has grown since our last trip there. We now have a quiver of options on how we may spend the night on Feisty, maybe pulled into the shallows and tied up onshore? Perhaps we'll drop the anchor and doze off in that secluded bay? Or if we must, because there is a ripper of a storm forecast, we'll pick up a mooring alongside other wise sailors. 

This trip marked the inaugural visit of friends on the boat. Eliza, a teacher I met while casual teaching, and her kids met us on a jetty one day, so we could sail them to a water-access-only beach across the lake, for the night. We swaggered down the jetty to meet them, showing off our sea legs, projecting an aura of competence and salty seamanship. We swiftly erased this notion just as soon as we got out on the water. We pulled up a sail and gently glided down the lake, a feat we hadn't yet achieved on this trip.

"Camille!" Captain Dad squawked, "we're doing it!" Our grins revealed our relish. 

It felt incredible to turn the motor off and move along, in a forward direction no less. Oftentimes we try to sail into the wind and find that we're actually moving backwards. Oftentimes we raise the sail, only to have it flap about in stressful snaps. On this trip, we felt like some pieces of the puzzle were coming together. 

We didn't fight.

I didn't stress Captain Dad with my stress.

We figured out which jobs each of us did well. 

It felt encouraging. Especially for me.

Things had gone so well, that it was only fitting that on the last night we reversed the mast into a tree, whose branch snapped to crash onto the deck. Because Feisty has a centre-board, not a fixed keel, we can take her into shallow waters so that we can almost step right from the boat onto shore. On this last evening of the trip, at dusk and hungry, we attempted to park in a small bay at a deserted campground. The lake water there was so full of tannin that it was like tea. You couldn't see your hand if you held it just under the surface. Used to jumping off the boat and guiding her gently into the shore by ropes, we were both hesitant to leap into the murkiness. Hence the backing into the tree. And then we ran the rudder into mud. And the outboard into a bush. And Shea feel overboard and ripped his favourite board shorts. Then he dropped our shore-rope into the water and it vanished from sight. Then I chose the longest rope in the rope locker to throw the drowning Captain. It must be thirty metres long, so long that, once the dust had settled, it took him forty five minutes to coil it. 

Like I said, we gust from idyll to squall in a heartbeat. 

I used to do this when I was a kid and went sailing with my Dad.

Thanks for the BOGGLE, Aunty Kat, Uncle Darby, Emie and Finn.