Wind
On anticipation.
It had been more than a year since I’d been sailing. Last spring and summer, I was increasingly pregnant, and then there was the whole “baby” thing. It fell to the bottom of the list—though not forgotten. It’d be a good day for sailing, I’d say every so often, if the sun was out and there was a little breeze.
Finally, I made it. All the things I’d worried I’d forgotten—rigging, getting off the dock, the right knots for the job—were there all along.
The wind was low—a green flag day—but steady enough, at least in the beginning, to make it to the Mass Ave bridge, speeding along on a broad reach. By the time I turned back, it had died down a bit. My boat and I moved in fits and starts, racing to catch the next puff I could see moving across the water.
I’m a bit stuck, I texted C. from where I was, close to home, but floating listlessly, without a push. Further ahead, I could see other boats moving a bit. The wind would be back. I would wait.