We drove from Leigh’s house in Maple City, Michigan to Spanish. Stayed last night at the Spanish River Inn. We arrived about 8:30 p and were up until 11:30 going through gear one more time. The night before completeness check seems to be an inevitability: the urge to pull everything out of the car, check it, and re-pack.
Memory: Arriving in Copper Harbor at about the same time of day in June, the end of a long sunny summer day. The Ferry Queen rocked almost imperceptibly against her moorings, silhouetted against a still-blue evening sky. In the hotel room, I pulled granola bars from boxes, stuffed them into gallon zip-lock bags; mac-and-cheese from its box into a bag, marking proportions and times on the bag with a sharpie. Why did I wait so late and still assume that it would all get done in time?
Lesson for today: 1 nautical mile = 1 minute of latitude. That is why there is no scale on the charts.
This moment: lying in my hammock strung between 2 pine trees. I broke dead branches to make aclear space. The sky is blue, white clouds rimming the horizon. Sounds: very faint rustle of leaves in a light breeze, the canvas of my Tilly hat rubbing against the nylon string of the hammock. The dive bomb buzz of an insect for a moment and then it is gone. The low, barely-audible throb of a boat engine, a whisper of water on a sand beach. Warm sun, cool air, wet panties, bare legs.
Tasks for today: Britches on the boat, line to fasten day hatch cover, laundry.
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