January 31, 2019/Day 119
Noon Position: 44 21S 134 58E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7
Miles since departure: 16,578
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Good miles today, but I’ve been having a tough time getting the full giddy-up out of Mo due to squalls.
Ran all night with a triple reefed main and double reefed jib, very conservative in 25 knots from the WSW, and was still up and on deck three times to ease sheets and help Monte get back on course when a troll passed through.
Easy day. We’re sliding into a high pressure system, and so winds are lightening.
Mo and I are now a mere 450 miles west of Tasmania; figure 3 – 4 days. Those who have been following along for some time may recall that a February of 2018 knockdown in the Indian Ocean put us into that island’s capital city, Hobart, in March for a bit of a refit.
Ten months later, Mo and I are approaching Hobart again, which has been the cause, today, of some reminiscence and the following prayer.
Dear Lord, deliver me from Hobart, I pray.
Let Mo not stray from the straight and narrow path to Cape Horn.
Or if not straight, at least let her head point generally toward the east,
And not the north. Let not her way lead to Hobart.
Please deliver me from the safety just east of South East Cape
Where, once around the cliffs and heaping black rocks and into
Recherche Bay, one is like on a mill pond and immediately free
From the ever raging temptest of the Great Southern Sea.
Deliver me from the long sandy beeches and still anchorages,
The manifold, Eukalyptus covered walks, and
The stark beauty of Mt Wellington. Deliver me from long drives
in the country with my wife. I wish them not.
On that note, please keep me from thinking of international airports
That could bring Joanna to me for a visit. Remind me not
of that cute room on the hill overlooking the Derwent in which
We stayed and enjoyed each other’s company now ten months ago.
Allow me not to be tempted by afternoon conversations with
Captain John Solomon aboard SOLE MIO, where we would share a
Glass of white wine or two, OK, maybe five, and talk about whatever,
But usually the sea and that time he sailed above the Aleutians.
Deliver me from the enticements of Sunday afternoon Dragon Races
With my friend, Daryll Ridgeway, and above all, keep me from thinking of
Usula’s lamb roasts aboard PIPER when she was moored upon
The glassy water of Barnes Bay. I wish it not (well, may be just a little).
I no longer wish the daily assistance of boatbuilder, Daryll, when putting
Mo back together, nor for the many trips to the chandleries,
The hardware stores, the advice, the conversation. Specifically,
Deliver me from those Roast Dinners with Daryll at the club.
I wish not for another visit with Sally, nor to be taken around town
To the best book store, the best coffee shop, the best place to buy
Dish Towels and the best wine. Nor do I wish for dinner at that famous
Waterfront Pub nor to talk about how to get fiber in my diet while at sea.
Please deliver me from the temptation of hot meat pies and sausage rolls.
And from all the other luscious pastries made daily at that lovely
Bakery up on the hill and on that street with all those other nice restaurants,
Which I visited each at least once last time, but now I wish them not.
Remind me not of the Maritime Museum, the Mawson Museum,
The bronze bust of Roald Amundsen near the water just like the one in
Nome, Alaska. (Now I have touched both noses.) Remind me not of the
Cricket matches, the stunning sandstone architecture, the street fairs.
Then there was this time I departed Hobart and came back to
Constitution Dock because of a busted radio and those two couples,
One on cruiser, John Barleycorn, and the other on a trawler named Storm Boy,
Helped almost without asking. The men soldered. The wife of Storm Boy,
An American, offered me a sandwich just after we finished shaking hands.
Then she made us all dinner. Then she offered apples from her orchard for my
Return to San Francisco. I’d never met either of these couples before and so
This serves as a really good example of the kind of hospitality I wish not.
In sum, please deliver me from the temptations of Hobart. Rid me of the
Memories of kindness and unrivaled amicability, the sense of fun and adventure.
I no longer wish to hear the cheery “Good on Ya!” nor “How’re you going?”
Nor do I wish to be called “Cobber” by Journeyman Ketch.
All these things I pray. Oh, and could you cool it with the squalls tonight?
I’d like to get some sleep.
This article was syndicated from The Figure 8 Voyage