Ripples by Emma Harding

It's not a good day for sailing. There’s barely a breath of wind and the sea is lake-smooth. But it’s the first time we’ve had a weekend free in an absolute age so we’re determined to make the best of it. The boat rocks as we clamber aboard, as if in resentful greeting. It’s been over a year since we’ve done any decent sailing. 

Onboard, we quickly fall into a familiar rhythm. Bill is up on deck optimistically unfurling the mainsail from its cover, gathering ropes from the storage boxes under the seats and checking fuel and battery levels. Me, I’m in the cabin stowing away provisions for our trip, locating charts and the logbook and switching on the radio. The air is stale down here and the bunk cushions smell musty. There is a sheen of salt-sticky dust over everything and I resolve to spend at least some of the trip down here giving the place a bit of a spruce. While Bill prepares the sheets and the sail for hoisting I take the opportunity to put on my sailing gear. I have learnt from experience to dress for all weathers. However warm and sunny it might appear onshore, it can still be bitingly cold out at sea. I scrape my hair back and tuck it under an old baseball cap. It’s not an attractive look, I’ll grant you, but wind, salt-spray and hair are not a happy mix. Luckily, there are no mirrors onboard. 

Preparations complete, we set about the process of departing. Again we perform our allotted tasks wordlessly, a well-rehearsed, syncopated dance, each of our manoeuvres in time with the other’s. I’m on the pontoon, having loosened both the bow and stern mooring lines but still holding onto both. Bill starts the engine which coughs into life, disgorging a spurt of water out behind. I push the bow hard away from me and leap onto the boat giving a final push against the pontoon edge as I do so. As Bill steers us gently out of the marina I pull the protective fenders up from the side of the boat and put them away. A line of swans glides silently past us, trailing ripples behind them. 

The boat chugs its way out of the marina and into open sea. There’s still no wind to speak of and no point hoisting the sails. There’s nothing for me to do. The stench of diesel and the noise of the engine hangs heavy in the air. I look back at Bill from my position near the bow. His mouth is a tight line. He’s so determined to be out on the water but I know he’s frustrated. I turn my gaze forward again and shift my position so that I can lean my back against the empty mast. I’m supposed to be keeping a look out but there’s nothing else out here so I close my eyes. Sailing’s much more Bill’s thing than mine. I get seasick when it’s rough and I hate having to use marina facilities. But Bill’s had this dream since he was a teenager. He bought this boat with the hard-earned savings from many an unfulfilling job. He deserves this. But my heart’s not in it. I’d much rather be at home, if I’m honest, with a good book, or in my garden and within easy reach of a hot bath. And a proper toilet. 

We’re really very different, Bill and I. He’s outdoorsy, likes camping and hiking. I like home comforts and convenience, good food and a warm bed. We’ve been married for over twenty years though despite our differences. And, I’ll admit, we’ve had some real adventures on this boat. When the wind is up and waves are tipped with white, when the sails are taut and the boat leans and skims over the water as if greased. When your arms ache from winching and your eyes sting from seawater, voices hoarse from shouting at each other over the roar of the wind and the sea. That’s when I saw what Bill loves about all this. How exhilarating it can be, how it can make you feel alive. And that’s when I loved him the most, his skin tanned and glistening, his muscles taut with effort, his eyes bright with joy. 

But that feels like a lifetime ago. When we were both young enough to throw ourselves into it. When it was all new to us. Today I feel ancient. Bulky, dumpy and sweaty in all this clobber. I feel becalmed. Going nowhere fast.

A gull shrieks overhead and I open my eyes. The glare of the sun bouncing off the varnished waters makes me squint. Time for a cup of tea, I think. I heave myself up and make my way along the deck to the stern. Bill hasn’t changed position. Still standing stiffly upright with one hand on the tiller and the other on the railing, he stares grimly ahead. His skin is greyer now, like his thinning hair, and he has a portly look about him I hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t look at me. I don’t think he’s any happier than I am. 

I climb down into the cabin and set the kettle on the cantilevered stovetop. As it starts to boil, emitting a shrill whistle, I run a damp cloth over the wooden shelf that holds the mugs. The sticky residue doesn’t budge. It’s going to take more than that to clean it. I make the tea, carry the two mugs up on deck and hand one to Bill. I sit in the cockpit and we both silently sip.

I look out to sea once more. The light has become hazier and it’s difficult to make out the horizon. The boat continues to slip through the inert water causing barely a ripple in its surface. If only there were some wind.