I've just returned from two days of sailing. I feel as if I've been away for a week. I lose all sense of time when I'm on water. Time stops. It becomes meaningless. Perhaps it's to do with the endless horizon. Or because I feel utterly embraced by the elements.
I was on the Spirit of Scott Bader again, the accessible catamaran owned by the Disabled Sailing Association. We sailed from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight, the Royal Southampton Yacht Club at the mouth of the Beaulieu river, then back again. Sleeping onboard was pure bliss. Silence, other than the sound of rigging, seagulls, water against the hull. Helming with full sails at ten knots was exhilarating.
There were only four of us: skipper, crew and one other guest who'd had a stroke a year ago. We talked of loss, of dependence, of changing identity. I was reminded to be grateful for a stable condition: one of the side-effects of stroke is epilepsy, unpredictable and shocking.
If I didn't have responsibilities, children, I'd go to sea. It's where I feel most calm. I'm with Tennyson:
Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
