Nourishment

The frigate bird picks up garbage, hoping it is food. It never is, despite repeated attempts. I do this too, tempted by the supposed soft life of washing machines, easy food access, running water, and electricity.

I haven’t left the marina since my aborted attempt more than a month ago. (See “Underpowered.”) I have a boat, but I’m afraid to use it. So I practice. I dive the hull and clean the intakes, through-hulls, and propeller. I run the engine every Sunday, and listen for dissonance. I rinse bird poop off the deck, and scrub rust from the rigging. I unfurl the jib and raise the mainsail. I watch the weather, and download tide charts.

But Habibi is chafing at the bit. Her fenders groan and moan against the dock, no matter how I adjust the lines. Let’s go! We are the closest boat to the ocean, and the temptation to leave is strong. We’re even pointed in the correct direction. But why isn’t the starter battery charging? Should I replace it? And how?

Nature calms me, so I paddle across the channel at dawn, carefully climb up the barnacled embankment, and hotfoot it to the beach. Ride the jetty rip out, and lo! there is Isla Pajaro (Bird Island) about a mile away. And beyond that, nothing but sea. I sit on the board, dangling my feet in the clear green water until the sun is high and hot, then paddle in. Nourished.