(Writing the Waves is my stream of consciousness journal while living aboard my new home, this vintage, 57-foot wooden–rubbed with love–sailboat, situated in the salty B.C. air along the coast of Vancouver Island.)
DAY 2; Sunday, Nov. 3
Did I mention I itch?
The power popped off the second my water started to boil … rerouted a jungle vine of cords and minimized my need for outlets, then proceeded to make coffee. That was the first day. After several more days of no trouble, the main cord on the dock would eventually fry. New plugs and outlets, a quick fix I would find.
Heat has to go off when I cook or I’m back to popping breakers. I wanted to downsize I guess …
I can do this.
Only three hundred and fifty-eight paces to shore. Have to hold it just right for a thousand feet … and the shower is a single stall. Not unlike a porno-booth, it takes loonies to keep going every 2 minutes. Found that if you clip your hair short you can skip the conditioning step. Buzz. Done.
… I can do this.
Last night the sounds of seagulls mulling and minnows feeding at ear level just feet away from my literal ears, engulfed me. A swirling eddy of echos, mostly soothing. Until the death rattle–of bone on wood, then metal then bone again–hit me from the what, starboard? It was east. It was creepy. How the fuck did a wharf rat get in my cabin?
It had to be huge. The sound of click’ity click, clack clack scrachktpthssp! kept on, increasing almost at the beckon of each new wind gust, slamming hungry waves all about the hull as this killer shrew, just mere splinters away from accessing my throat–his oily head about to pop through that hole he’s chewing …
… um, where the hell did I put my flash light …
“… each new wind gust? Yeah, of course. I’m a dolt. A little tape wound around the eye-hole of that steel cleat will keep the wind from strumming that bone gnawing sound again. Stephen King get the fuck out of my head please. Boom. Exercised. Another demon down.
I am doing this.
Three hundred fifty-seven, six, five …