journal du bord

Pierre is a fabulous Captain, he is thorough, likes order, keeps track of everything in a slightly obsessive compulsive ship-shape attitude I’ve learned makes captains tick-a-diy tock. He loves neat ropes, procedures, head flashlights, expensive sleek sailing gear, and svelt life jackets. He married me… 
poor Captain; 
our differences are our force.
 Although since becoming pregnant safety, security, and order have become new top priorities, thank you Mother Nature… who knew what good old hormones and stress could grow in a cloud bound artist.
I digress, we have this journal du bord. Pierre writes everything that happens. It’s a real page turner let me tell you. I’ve translated  into English an example of one of these best selling chapters…..

04h15- wind actual 15 nds, direction of boat 255 degrees, wind unstable and frequent changes of the Jenny. 
7h15- change of shift, wind 21 ads, direction of boat 240 degrees, navigating close to wind, rough waters, rolling waves



Thrilling right? I’ve created an alternative journal du bord. What I would want to read if I had to read one of these pultzers.


16h15- Leave port Carthegena direction north, 25 knots of east wind, Now traveling at 5.2 knots in the direction of what the fuck, the auto-pilot stopped working again. 
I unplugged the unwilling dick and re-vamped the whole system three times. Tell wife we need a new autopilot, I will throw this broken, useless, foul cock rock into the sea. Wife laughs while taking hold of the bar and howling into the sunset. Realized another crew member unplugged autopilot connection down below. Wife again finds this funny; we kiss and feel our son move. The autopilot lives to see another day.


11-14h Jess’s watch. Jess arrived to her post with crayons and journals. Her one word response to questions oozed hints of DO NOT TALK TO ME ANYONE, I AM BuSY CREATING LIFE IN MY WOMB, today is not your day for CHITCHAT. I AM A WHALE, A HUGE ORCA I CAN FLIP THIS BOAT WITH MY BLOWHOLE. I NEED WHALE SPACE. Her pastels fell on the floor boards of the cockpit again making a blue/ green mark. Thank God she did not bring glitter on the trip. 


Arrival in port 05h13, filled up on Spanish gas, 20 cents cheaper than French gas and comes with complementary tapas and sangria. Wife eats all the tapas leaving two olives for us… we men folk drink the sangria. The boat’s batteries have no charge, the engine is supposed to charge the batteries while running. This is not happening. I tell crew we are fucked and disappear angrily into the shitter, moving boxes, complaining about how much money we have poured into this aluminum creature, and mumbling obscenities in a language wife calls, Piraté, piaratay like you would say boo-tay but with French accents so it’s sexier and dignified. We move port places twice to try to find electrical outlets our power chord will enter; cannot find a place. I tell the crew we have a big problem we need to buy a new alternator immediately  The crew has disappeared; Hervé in his couchette, wife walking laughing at names of big boats. We are near a gorgeous 90 foot boat called, « Sailing for Jesus ». Where did barefoot Jesus get all the money for this big assed boat, wife asks. Maybe the Jesus people will give us a new alternator or at least turn salt water into sangria. 


8-11h My watch. We advance at 4 knots. Seriously boat, 4 knots, that’s all you can give me? I walk to the genois to adjust the sail and spot a hole in our plexiglass lookout spot. HOW IS THERE A HOLE IN THE PLEXIGLASSSSSS? Angry and panicked I show Jess, 
« At least the birds can now enter our boat freely » she says. « Now we can have pets. Maybe I can find us a micro parrot and he can also be a third crew member. When he does watches we can train him to say, « Polly want a cracker and watch out we are colliding with a big boat ». She smiles. I married a special lady… For now duck tape and my sticky dreams insulate the hole.