Reflections on the Quiet Times

It is relatively easy to write about the exciting times, but far harder to describe the moments that I treasure most.

At Anchor behind Hunter Island, in the Duke Archipelago, off the Queensland Coast of Australia

There isn’t another boat in sight, not one sign of life on the island that protects us from the insistent southeast trade winds. The nearest town is about two days sailing north. The more popular anchorages, where sometimes a dozen or two cruising boats congregate, lay off islands well to the east. We’ve chosen the far less traveled route, looking for some time completely to ourselves. And now as we meander slowly northward with no set destination, no set schedule, we are truly on our own. We could possibly get an internet connection by sending one of our phones up to the top of the mast, then connecting via a hot spot, but yesterday, just before the hilly islands of this archipelago closed off the internet signals from the mainland, we’d picked up the long-range weather forecast. It reported there were no weather threats. So, neither of us is eager to feel “connected” nor to move on. Instead, we have decided to relax and savor this time, realizing how rare it can be.

And what do we do with it?

?

David is in full-on “artist” mode, waking early and eager to set up his easel next to the chart table. By the time I rouse myself, he has spent an hour at his work then taken a break and prepared a generous breakfast. When I climb out of bed, I find him once again in position behind his easel next to the chart table which is covered with carefully arranged boxes of pastels. For a few moments, I stand and watch him choosing first one, then another stick from his array of almost 200 different pastel colors. Slowly, he is creating an impressionist-style painting from a photo he took of me at work on a puzzle at the saloon table a few evenings ago. In the galley sits a smaller version of David’s breakfast he prepared for me.

I take the repast he has left me out into the cockpit where I relax and enjoy the sights around us. The graduated color of the water captures my attention. It changes dramatically as it shoals between us and the golden sweep of a deserted beach. The fleeting clouds catch my eye as I try to decide which writing project will offer the most enjoyable way to pass the morning. When I finally climb below and squeeze past David’s easel, trying not to interrupt his concentration, I have narrowed my ideas to three. My morning feels both totally relaxed, and fulfilling when, about two hours later, David turns his easel around and asks, “What do you think of this?”

Over the almost 9 years we have been living and voyaging together, I have learned to look at paintings far differently than I did when we first met. Now I have an idea of what he is trying to achieve, and also know he genuinely appreciates my thoughts. So, I tell him I like what he is doing today and can see where he is headed. Will I love the work when it is finished? Not sure as some of his creations make me want to frame and hang them; others don’t grab me the same way.

I’ve actually started on each of the three ideas I had, including this one. Tomorrow I’ll probably finish this snapshot of our cruising life. But now I start thinking about what I will use to fill the wraps we will make up for lunch. This leads me to add a few notes on the shopping list. It will grow a lot longer by the time we run out of fresh fruit and decide to head onward towards Mackay to reprovision. But what about the rest of the day?

The wind is gusty. Squally rain showers make the idea of putting the inflatable in the water less than attractive. So, instead of a meander on shore, it will probably be a snooze, or a good book for David. For me, a bit of time on the jigsaw puzzle I started in the last anchorage and hope to finish today, or a book I am enjoying. If there is a break in the showers, I might just try scraping and sanding another section of the varnish work on Sahula’s doghouse. Then it will be time for shared sundowners where our conversation will range far and wide. And, as sundowners morph into dinner, I’ll look back at the day and think nothing much happened, and that was just fine with both of us.

It isn’t only when we have been hiding away in quiet anchorages and cut off from life ashore that I have savoured times like this. I remember many periods in our cruising life when we found ourselves secured near small villages or even in places where a dozen or two other cruisers lay at anchor, when nothing much seemed to happen, but life floated gently along as it rarely would on shore.

Throughout my writing career, I have tried to create stories about how special these times can be. But I found, as many others have before me, it is far easier to write about the mishaps, the stormy times or difficult passages than the peaceful good times. I can only think of one instance when I successfully captured the same feeling and shared it with my readers. It was in chapter two of my book, Seraffyn’s Oriental Adventure.

……Just sixteen miles south of Lakka, Greece, we tied stern to the shoreline fronting a tiny road that led into the village of Gayo. At night, it was so quiet it seemed as if we were anchored in the middle of a farm instead of across the road from dozens of chickens, sheep, goats, and a pair of donkeys.

One evening I put on my new, hand-embroidered gauzy Greek blouse, a long skirt, and high heels. Larry trimmed his beard and got out his carefully stowed favorite shirt.

We walked along the water’s edge, listening to the late-evening sounds of this tiny island community. The five small shops were already closed; oil lamps glowed in the windows of two dozen fishermen’s homes. But when we came to where four restaurants faced each other, there were at least two dozen people seated at small tables under the trees that grew in the center of the cobblestone plaza. Spiro, the café owner, fussed about us as we joined the Greek visitors from the mainland.

The tart bite of iced local retsina contrasted with sweet slices of tomato, onion, and green pepper soaked in olive oil and oregano. Spiro’s youngest son brought a perfect gardenia to sit next to each of our plates on the linen tablecloth. Two candles flickered in tall glasses next to the sweet-smelling flowers; they lent a quiet glow that didn’t detract from the bright stars overhead. When we began eating marinated lamb on a bed of soft, dry rice, Spiro’s wife came out and sat on the step of the restaurant, then softly strummed local melodies on a battered bouzouki. Just as we were finishing a plate of tiny island-grown apricots and plums, the owner of the restaurant across the hundred-foot-wide plaza came walking over with a portable battery-operated record player. He set it on a table, and soon the familiar-sounding strains of Greek dance music had half a dozen men on their feet. The slow, intricate movements of their dance fit perfectly into the mellow mood of this quiet evening. We tried to join them, but even Spiro’s patient coaxing and demonstrations left us feeling clumsy. So, we sat and sipped hot, spicy tea while our host and his friends wove their spell.

It was close to midnight when we returned to Seraffyn. But both of us were reluctant to end the fine evening. Larry got out our cockpit cushions and poured me a cream sherry. Then we just relaxed and waited.

A lone man came down the dark road behind us, his small kerosene hand lamp lighting the packed-dirt path. We watched the lamp trace a line that led to the far end of the island. Then it stopped, and a few minutes later we saw the fifteen-foot-high navigation light on the point sputter, then glow. Moments later we climbed below for the night. Just before I dozed off, I felt gentle rocking as a small cargo boat came through the narrow passage leading to the village. Somehow, I felt as if I’d been part of a day that had been just the same for two thousand years. Nothing exciting ever happened on Paxos, and that was its special charm.

Two stories of quiet times I’ll always treasure, one on board Sahula with David in an isolated island anchorage off the coast of Queensland, the other with Larry on board Seraffyn many years ago on a tiny island village in Greece. What do they have in common? In both instances, schedules were forgotten, and we were cut off from the cares and worries of the outside world. My time in Paxos happened long before the intrusion of the internet into everyday life. Now it usually takes an act of willpower to disconnect so completely. Fortunately David and I didn’t have to depend on willpower. Instead, the isolation of the anchorage we chose, the lack of internet connection, provided us with a special reward, the chance to live completely in the moment.