Essays

By late afternoon, the wind was strong enough for us to sail so we left the sweltering beach where we’d spent a couple of hours, two blistering bodies among hundreds, and drove to nearby Rehoboth Bay.
    There on a small patch of sand sat our small sailboat, ready for us to add the rudder, centerboard and mast and set out on our daily sail. We’d developed a quick routine for rigging the boat, and launched fairly quickly.  
    Steering carefully through blue-green shallows, we reached a deeper part of the bay, shoved down the centerboard and let go. Let go of the heat, the crowds, the traffic jams during our Friday night drive.  Let go of the past week’s tensions and triumphs, the relentless weekday schedules of rising early, working hard, turning in late and beginning again.
    Let go of our masks, the dividers between each other. The wind blew through my hair and over our bodies, cooling us after our time on the hot sand.  Along the far shore, a few houses peeked out among many trees.  Several small sailboats and catamarans, a dozen motor boats, a few jet skis and a couple of kayaks were out on the bay at that time of day but it never felt crowded.  
We talked about our dreams and worries. We reviewed the past week’s challenges. Occasionally, we shared about our childhoods. Sometimes we spoke about where to grab dinner that night or didn’t talk at all.
    It was the ultimate relaxation, especially for me, the one-woman crew with few tasks. My husband, usually preoccupied with work during the week, focused on sailing the boat but that didn’t demand much concentration unless the wind shifted or we changed course. Mostly, he was present with me.

First published in Spot Literary Magazine, vol. 4, no. 1, spring 2010.