Gifts

I finally left the harbor — yahoo!

Habibi came through torrential rains and gale force winds just fine! Nothing shifted, nothing broke, the mooring held. The holding tank leaked a little because I’d been working on it and hadn’t tightened the lid enough. But all the hatches stayed battened until I opened them to the cool fresh air Hilary left behind.

So on Monday I learned about batteries, alternators, and isolators (thanks Donnie), and discovered the ‘bimini solar ON’ switch. I got the power! 

On Tuesday, I finished cleaning out the navigation cabinet while running the engine, then played with the electronics, charts, radar, and VHF radio. 

On Wednesday, I started the engine, cast off the mooring lines, and — get this — left the laguna where I’ve been reading manuals for 18 days (minus a hurricane).

I’m out! Wow! It is gorgeous! Look at these desert islands, greener now because of the rains, and diving pelicans, and schools of jumping fish. Woo-hoo! Blue sky…

…and now we’re smoking, literally. From the exhaust. Uh-oh. At the helm, I pull the levers back to idle and neutral. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

Shifting into forward, I bump up the rpm’s a little, and turn Habibi around. I discern from the smoke signals that she doesn’t like to go fast, so we putter back to the marina, past the monstrous ship parked outside, past the not-so-monstous ships docked inside, then veer right (starboard) into the laguna toward the mooring field. Lotta smaller boats now, tied to lines attached to small yellow buoys, which are in turn attached to big white mooring balls. 

Hmm. I see a likely looking ball and buoy, close to a boat, but also close to me. Slow down. Coast up to the buoy… and, where did it go? Oh. Almost under us. Reverse. Careful of the propeller!

Another pass, slowly slowly around, and… yes! Gotcha, loopy mooring line! Onto the cleat with you.

Twice before I had help: one person steering at the stern (rear) cockpit, the other with a boat hook, snagging the line wherever she may roam. This is the first time I have tied up solo. She’s 37 feet, people, gotta be quick. And that other boat is nearby. But! No harm, no foul. Hallelujah.

Yes, a lot can go wrong, and already has. (Why did the water tank overflow inside the boat? Why is there a ding on the transom? Will the bottom paint last until I find another boatyard? and… smoking?) But in the grand scheme of things, these are minor irritations. Every day I check the waterline: we are not sinking.

Last week I remembered another reason I bought a boat: snorkeling. After months of daily forays, I hadn’t done it since Habibi became legally mine. So during sunrise, I rowed north, secured the dinghy to a bush, then plopped into the Sea of Cortez. Aahhh, family! Indigo, vermilion, dusky blue, chocolate, spiny purple, yellow-black stripes, and the longest needle-nose pipe fish I’ve ever seen, three or four feet. And that starfish doesn’t let a little setback like chomped-on limbs stop her. Oh no, she’s regenerating and carrying on.

A song I sang in college springs to mind: ‘Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free, ’tis a gift to come down where you ought to be.

I don’t know about simple. A sailboat is a complicated piece of machinery, and I’m not even halfway through all the manuals. But where I’m supposed to be? Yes. Exactly so.