The wind is warm. Finally. We are well into the tropics. The moon is waxing, now more than just a sliver, in the west. The moon is my reassurance. She throws down silver feathers on the sea, calming the waves and my nerves. She is above Venus. Orion stands guard, but idly, since the moon is so much stronger than she appears.
“Ventura” glows faintly red from within. At night I use only red lights in order to preserve my night vision. Down below, “Ventura” appears soft and warm. A towel sways on a hook as “Ventura” rolls with the sea. The waves and the boat seem to caress each other tonight. I swear if I were to reach out right now and touch her, “Ventura” would be soft and alive.
I listen. Sounds are like emotions; they rest like layers of sediment, placed there by our past, challenging us to mine them. The boat creaks, a block above deck rasps as a line pulls taut, my head rests against the hull and I hear the soft rustling of the water as it bids its constant farewell. I am separated from the sea by a quarter inch of hull. I always think of amniotic fluid as I lie here. I am born out here. The wind is quiet tonight, breathing as if asleep, and I have to listen attentively to hear it, as I might lying in bed checking that my wife is breathing.
And then there is the music. Every day I play something, often over and over. Today it is classical guitar, the second movement of JoaquÌn Rodrigo’s “Concierto de Aranjuez,” played by Pepe Romero. Only the second movement, again and again. Why this way? Is it not boring? But the same moon rises each night, and still I am in love with her. Why not a piece of music?
I only discovered this music recently, at a concert conducted by Boris Brott. I mentioned my fascination with this concerto, and Boris Brott and Diane Duncan of the symphony gave me a CD just before I left on this voyage. The moon, the sea and my mood did not all align until tonight. Thank you, Boris and Diane, for a night of life and memory.
David