the washing machine

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gently rocking to produce a wet deckWe motored North towards the party Island of  Ios, into the meltemi, into the wind,  sails tightly packed-away, avoiding the katabatics.   Wind speeds  were between  40 and  50 knots,   gale force 10, with  what the skipper described as  flying water from the tops of the whitecaps.   Red, Poodle and Spanial donned anti-seasickness wristbands.

Labrador in full sensible waterproofs stayed dry on deck to the left of the skipper.   To the left of  Labrador Red lay back-to-the-bench shivering in full sun and swimwear.   Red was  unable to sit-up lest the action give momentum to Red’s stomach contents.   I  dragged myself along the boat, down the almost-as-dangerous-as-the-wendy-house-stairs  and went below to bring-up Red’s fleece.   It was like navigating a fairground ride without a laughing audience.  

Poodle was buried beneath towels lying on the bench next to me, groaning.      All the colour had drained from Spaniel’s lips laying  back to  the bench opposite facing the sky.     Retriever  was head over the side wretching while  Spanial and I  held a leg each  lest the jerking of the boat lever Retriever ir-retriever-bly  overboard.  

Skipper would smoke a  cigarette every now and then…  

Lighting a cigarette is a tricky manouvre while helming a boat in a gale,   one has to admire the skippers dexterity and skill.   With each puff on the cigarette the pack pulled either hands, towels or jacket collars  over their nose and mouth to filter any trajectile-style impact of the smoke on thier bouncing stomachs.

Skipper put the boat on auto-pilot and went below to brew a coffee.   As soon as he’d left the deck labrador elegently turned,   ejaculated a globule of stomach contents in one smooth action off the stern, then returned to face the wind looking like a true stalwart.   Good timing and action,   10 for technique I’d say.

I sat in my sea-spray-soaked,  warm, neoprene jacket in the blazing  sunshine with regular sea-showers.   Each sea-shower  produced a seemingly choreographed choral groan from the lying-on-thier-back pack.      I waited unimpatiently  for

real sailing  experience #2:  feeling sick

I never did get real sailing experience #2.  

The shere volume of flying water made reading my novel impossible,   the powerful swinging motion made   writing in my journal or sketching impossible,   the pack were clearly not in the mood for good conversation,   the views were rather predicatbly sea and sky, which can induce visual boredum.    Instead of developing seasickness I  worked on fending off the boredum by considering the contents of this post and singing to myself… ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor?…

the washing machine
rate wendys scribble

one wonderful muse on “the washing machine”

  1. poochner writes:

    Motoring?! Good grief. It’s SAILING! If you’re not afraid you’re going to die, there’s not enough wind. Put those sheets up and get on with it!

    Bah!

    God, I miss sailing so…

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