The Jib is Up

… or out, as the case may be. (Habibi’s headsail, or jib, is on a vertical furler at the bow, with lines to control it running back to the helm. The sail unfurls horizontally; well, triangularly.) 

Exactly thirty-nine weeks after I moved onboard, almost a year after my first sailing course, I sail solo. No motor, no other humans; just me, the boat, and the wind.

I can do it. I am doing it. Sailing solo.

After awhile, skimming blissfully along, tacking away from tankers, I think I should be done for the day. Habibi isn’t. For the first time since we met, the jib won’t roll all the way in; a piece of sail sticks out, valiantly catching a few knots of wind.

Okay. We’ll sail some more. What a delight! No engine noise. Just god.

But an hour or so later I’m tired. Really. Enough happiness, okay? Don’t want to overdo it, right? Short and sweet?

So, into the anchorage. And out again. Sunday revelers are at their peak: two-story party boats with live bands, power boats with canned banda music, jet skis screaming, lanchas pulling bouncy banana boats. By this time I’ve powered up the engine to avoid the rocks of Los Cardones, so we motor away. But I don’t know of another nearby, safe place to drop anchor. I cruise around, then return as the sun sets. The wind is stronger, but I manage, and the chain clanks overboard, zip ties marking the length: stop there — 125 feet. Run back to the cockpit to test: engine in reverse, eyes on perpindicular landmarks. The anchor is holding. Huzzah.

Now to tidy up: furl the jib (now she does it); spray vinegar on rusty anchor chain marks; loop lines and sling over winches and cleats; note engine hours; and update logbook.

My Solo Sailor Smile lasts all night, and revisits often. Ha.