I spent most of the Easter weekend fixing up the boat with the intention of taking it up to Piel Island to check everything was put back in the right place. Fortunately this isn't a picture of what the boat looks like after the winter.
We'd had a bit a of a leak, however, not a good thing for a boat, especially since the trail of water ended in the batteries. Fortunately (I can't take the credit here) Anni (one of the co-owners) glummed up all the possible pin-sized holes and tah dah! No more puddles, as yet. But it's an old boat, it sits on the water, it rains a lot where we live and sail. There'll be more.
Despite being safely on the water, I do feel out of my depth when it comes to many of the jobs - electrics particularly are not my bag. I mean, just look at all those wires. Gulp.
Luckily, again, I co-own the boat and that means we pool resources. So my day before the hoped-for sail was spent reattaching sails, scrubbing decks, shackling life-lines back to the deck and tying lots of knots. I like tying knots. Essential mechanisms that can be totally relied upon, all made out of a few twists in a piece of string. A bit like punctuation.
Anyway, as this blog's title suggests Gales were forecast and we didn't go out. And while there was the inevitable disappointment, since despite wind it was a gorgeous weekend, I also felt a little like I'd just written a crappy few lines that didn't end up in a poem.
Nothing is wasted. The preparation all adds towards development. Despite not going out, I've gained a familiarity with the engine that I hadn't had previously. I understand what the tubestack in the heat exchanger now looks like, what it does and so one more piece of the jigsaw that is the engine has been put into place.
And then the wind adds a further metaphor. Too much wind = too many ideas. Is this why I've not settled well into the last couple of ideas I've sat down to? I think I've finally emerged from that post-book completition calm and am now howling (force 11) with ideas I want to execute, and of course I can't think through, dig in, and write down all those ideas any quicker than I can - which is generally quick slowly, despite how many are piling up, or how fast more are popping up.
I need hunker down while the headgale swirls around me, focus on the quiet below, trust the knots and slowly slowly let the poem come. If it means I don't get all the ideas down that has to be okay. At least I know what the tubestack looks like.