"Sarah, would you like to crew from Esperence to Albany?"
"Of course Kev!"
"Well, just so you know I've had a minor heart attack and the Tearaway is on her last legs."
"Good. Thanks for that. So ... umm. Anything else?"
"There is bodybag on board." (I think he was joking about that bit.)
So my sis and Mick drove me the Esperence and dropped me off at the yachtie's jetty.
Weed in the water, cuttlefish bones like strange faces bobbing on
glittery mid-morning seas.
The sky is clear and so is the land.
"It will warm up a bit later on
and the cool air will come in from the sea.
So, off we go ...
We'll get to Figure-o-Eight Island in time for morning tea."
We ate so well on that sail because Kev was cleaning out his veins. He'd given up sugar and salt and fat. That was the same Kevin who yelled at me for not having a gun while hitch hiking when I'd run out of options home, the man who circumvented/located? (sorry) Australia using a compass and a sextant, whose biggest thrill was coming into an anchorage, losing control out at sea, getting snuck up upon by a great white while abalone diving, who found that the GPS system on his boat 'dismantles me as a man.' He, like Salt, thinks and speaks in inches, feet, miles and knots.
Occasionally he worried about me, before he realised that I was quite okay, really.
At night, the boat sounded different, ropes creaked, a tickling sound fell like a waterfall against the hull. Were we losing water? What was that noise? Some kind of weird electro magnetic static against the hull. Creatures clattered on the roof.
The chain thudded against its bridle.
At midnight I heard his voice, 'Sarah.' 'Sarah.'
"The wind has turned. We have to put another anchor out."
Oh yes, Borges, I do agree.
When this man sailed off his mortal coil on a Saturday afternoon,
another library burned to the ground.