Well now, I finally got around to hoisting the mainsail and that frilly bit of canvas called the gennaker, which I’m convinced was invented purely to make a man feel clever — or foolish, depending on how the wind catches it. As luck (or the barometer) would have it, the wind took to shoving me from the starboard side like a stern aunt nudging you toward church. With that, I set my heading due south — 174 degrees to be precise, because nothing says confidence like adding numbers to your direction — and we’re slipping along at a proud 8.4 knots, which, in land terms, is “faster than a mule on payday.”
They say the wind will hold till 11 o’clock tonight, which suits me fine — gives me time to ponder the meaning of life or at least the meaning of that creaking sound in the bulkhead.
Now, at 5 o’clock, I’ve set an alarm, not for tea but for trouble — the wind’s due to puff itself up from 13 to 15 knots. That’s the kind of increase that makes a sailboat lean like a suspicious man at a poker table. I’m expecting to reach the edge of Öland Island by about 9 PM, assuming Poseidon and the navigation gods don’t get bored and start playing dice.
So far, I haven’t spied any place to anchor that doesn’t look like it came straight out of a sea serpent’s retirement home — rocks, shallows, and all manner of inhospitable nonsense.
While I was poking about the marine traffic charts (a magical map that shows you what other fools are out at sea), I discovered that I might cross paths with a mechanical wonder: the SD 2031, a U.S. marine research drone, uncrewed and apparently unbothered, sailing along at 2.7 knots on a bearing of 9 degrees north. A ghost ship, if ghosts came with barcodes and government funding. Left Oakland, California — no crew, no engine, no sense. Just drifting like an old bottle with a note that says, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
I pulled up its last log. It was updated six hours ago, which means it could be anywhere between here and some unsuspecting fishing net. So I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled, my glasses wiped, and my collision insurance updated.
It’s 15 degrees outside — not cold, not warm, just the kind of weather that makes you question your choices. Light rain falling, the sort of drizzle that doesn’t bother to get serious but will still soak your collar. Might retreat inside, fire up the laptop, and get some work done while keeping one eye on the sea — and the other on that wandering robot ship.
And that’s the state of things. Me, the wind, a ghost drone, and no place to stop.