Waiting

 

Anchorage at night

Night zephyrs chase across the bay. Ripples twirling across the dark water. Anchor lights bobbing. The air is heavy and wet. Delicate rain drops appear out of the night. They tease with their sudden appearance only to vanish moments after I close the hatches. An uncomfortable swell wraps around the harbour, rocking the boat unpredictably, my inner ear protesting. 

Not long ago the wind was blowing from the south east, gusting over twenty knots. More wind is soon expected from the north. This is the third front in five days. Each bringing rain and wind interspersed with calm. The worst is still forecast to come. All I can do is wait. 

We've hardly left the boat in days. The pantry lockers are well stocked. The deck has been scrubbed clean. The tanks are full with rain water. The wet weather chores are done. I feel that all the good books have been read. The never ending overcast days have left the batteries drawn down. The wifi signal is weak. The lag making it impossible to lose minutes in the meaningless chatter of Facebook. We have lots of board games but I'm not interested. The awkward roll kills my desire to think. Tempers are short. 

I contemplate a quick night ride on the paddle board. Anything to break the monotony. I crave activity but it's dark and I don't want to be caught out when the winds return.

I look longingly at charts of anchorages with white beaches and coral reefs. I read the ActiveCaptain descriptions that capture glimpses of places that are wonderful to explore in prevailing winds. Anchorages made treacherous by this slow train of fronts.

I must be content. We have chosen this bay for its protection. We are safe. I may be uncomfortable, I may not be entertained but this is a good place to be. I know the anchor is well set. I know we can ride out anything in the forecast. But do we really understand the risks of boredom?