Red Right Returning

May arrives, and we fall into the rhythm of sailing, moving together in a dance we know in our bones.

Could that be a little fairy dust at the end of B-Dock?

Bob has been preparing for weeks, watching the weather, spending afternoons at Stanley’s Boatyard, ticking down his checklist. We let the yard do more of the work these days, but Bob still tends Restless, our 36-foot Hunter, like a young foal, brushing and rubbing her coat until she gleams. Even after four seasons, this 2007 sloop feels new to us.

The new(er) Restless

On Friday, I get the word that Restless will be splashed. Cradled in massive slings, the team at the yard gently lowers her into the water and places her at the end of B-Dock. The two-day countdown begins. By Sunday, they’ll need the space for another boat, and we’ll be on our way to our mooring in Bristol, RI.

Over the next 24 hours, we fall into a rhythm we’ve known for decades. Bob lugs the sails on board and together, we raise them, readying them to receive a season’s worth of wind. They glide into their grooves without complaint. Everything’s working. I pinch myself.

I used to dread putting the sails on the original Restless, the boat Bob owned when I met him in 1994. I wiggled out of that spring ritual whenever possible. Something always seemed to go wrong, and it took more height and strength than I possessed.

Bob and me on the original Restless, sailing Penobscot Bay.

Let me be clear: I’m not faint of heart when it comes to sailing: I’ve sailed with two children in diapers. I just felt inadequate to the task of wrangling the sails onto the masts. But we were a team, so I pitched in when we couldn’t find a tall, strong person to help. The payoff was another season of sailing.

Our entire relationship was built around sailing. My first date with Bob took place aboard the old Restless in Maine. That date lasted a week.

Our daughters, Emily and Elizabeth, sailed from birth through their teens. So many memories. Restless aged alongside our growing family. Each year she asked a little more from us. She grew irascible and unpredictable. Her old bones refused to turn with grace. It became harder for me to pull in the sails, never mind put them on in the spring.

Elizabeth and Emily aboard the original Restless, more than 20 years ago.

The new Restless has a few features designed for “mature” sailors (though how mature we are is an open question). I have sufficient strength to pull in the mainsail and jib on our new boat - very empowering! Although I’ve been taking “muscle challenge” classes at the local gym, I don’t think it’s my muscles that have changed the dynamic.

I credit the in-mast roller furling, which allows the mainsail to be easily rolled up inside the hollow mast, instead of “flaking” the sail (folding the sail horizontally along the length of the boom). I’ll be honest: I don’t miss flaking sails one bit. In a stiff wind, it’s like trying to fold a giant’s canvas bed sheet on a balance beam with an industrial fan blowing in your face.

In defense of the old Restless , she did offer a nice lounging spot for the girls when the sail cover was on. Very cushy with all that sail folded up underneath.

These days, when we're lucky enough to have them sail with us, you're more likely to find them at the helm.

Saturday afternoon, I load my car with the galley ware, bedding and pillows which I’d cleaned and stored in the fall. The accordion of the sailing season expands again, as we breathe life back into each corner of our floating home.

Our sailing life works in part through division of labor. Bob is captain of the boat, but I’m captain of the galley. He fixes things and I make things.

Over the years, Bob has taught me how to steer a compass course in the fog, trim the sails, catch a mooring ball and do many of the essentials on the boat. I love standing at the helm, directing the ship toward a new horizon. After 30 years, I’m still learning.

Sunday morning dawns. We’re at the dock by 7 am. The harbor lies still, but for a slight exhale of wind that ruffles the surface.

Engine on. Release the dock lines. Haul in the fenders. We are underway. Bob stands at the helm, steady as ever, in his element. That smile: the same smile I fell for in Maine when we were dating. That same feeling of beginnings, a summer of possibility. I let it enfold me.

I take my favorite seat in the stern, sipping my coffee, scribbling in my journal, trying not to squander this moment. We retrace our steps, paths we’ve traveled year after year, leaving red nuns to port as we depart Barrington harbor and round the point to Bristol.

The world slips away. Sunlight trips across the water. The present is everything.

Entering Bristol Harbor, we waive to passing boats and friends who have just finished the same spring dance, finding that rhythm of working together in small spaces surrounded by the vast outdoors.

A red nun appears to starboard. Red right returning. We are home.

Cynthia "Cindy" Elder is the author of the two-part novel, Tales of the Sea. The Journey Begins and The Drumbeats of War are based on original letters, ship's logs and personal diaries from Bob Elder's merchant sailing family in the 1800s. The novels are available in print, e-book and audiobook at select local bookstores and on Amazon.