Beside our driveway, near the trees, she sits high on her perch waiting.
The north wind blows hard under her belly. Her keel is dry and the tiller useless. Wind and waves mean nothing to her now. Like a lungfish, she lies dormant waiting for the water to return.
I’m not sure why it saddens me. Perhaps it’s the waiting. She’ll sail again, but for me waiting isn’t the quiet game it use to be.
Still, it won’t be long and her keel will touch water again. Her helm will answer and we’ll beat to windward, racing against the waves; then fall off to grab a beam wind and fly across sun soaked water. At days end, with the wind at our backs, we’ll quietly push to an island and sleep for the night.
That day is coming. In just a few months the snow will melt from her bow and the westerlies will call us.
We’ll fly again, her and I, but for now we both wait for Spring.