sømand

This is the view from my heat escape "Sail." Sunset over the bay from my anchorage, a cool breeze keeping things real, and the Flopper Stopper (https://www.faymarine.com/Pauls%20Information%20Site/Flopper%20Stopper.htm) doing its thing.

Tuned into BBC Radio 4 Long Wave via WebSDR tonight. 198 kHz from Droitwich — 500 kilowatts, a signal that's crossed oceans and kept fishermen company for decades — closes in an hour. The LW band only has room for about ten stations across the entire dial; the antennas are skyscraper-sized, the electricity bills ruinous, and the maintenance never stops. So it goes.

North America should have had this. A single LW station in Montreal could have blanketed the Maritimes, Quebec, and Ontario with a groundwave signal that didn't fade at night. The physics were perfect. But the frequencies were already locked up for aviation beacons, the receiver manufacturers never put LW on the dial, and no one stepped forward with the money. So we got clear-channel AM instead — WABC, WWVA, WSM — doing a similar job at shorter range, more static, more skip. I've written about that before.

Now satellite does the magic, but the world is smaller for it. Nothing fades. Nothing arrives unexpectedly. FM has its repeaters, clean and local and dull. I still remember Radio Luxembourg on 234 kHz playing Dark Side of the Moon in full on its anniversary — an album arriving whole across a continent on a frequency that felt like gravity, not broadcast. That was magic. Tonight, a little more of it goes quiet.

The winds were calling yesterday, so I slipped out of work early and pointed the bow upriver. A 23‑nautical‑mile run in 12–17 knots is hard to ignore. The outbound leg carried full canvas, the boat settling into that steady rhythm you only get when everything aligns. For the return, I swapped to the heavy‑weather jib and first mainsail reef—more control, more bite, and better manners once the gusts started tumbling through.

Sailing teaches you vectors whether you want the lesson or not. Downwind, your own speed subtracts from the breeze; upwind, it stacks on top, turning a modest forecast into something far more spirited. The ride back was blustery, but in that satisfying, everything‑is‑working way.

And then, as if the river had made its point, the wind vanished for the rest of the weekend. A reminder that when the breeze calls, you go—because it won’t wait.

The wind is barely there, brushing the water like a passing thought. Perfect. That’s code‑zero weather. I hoist the sail and the boat responds instantly, slipping forward at the same speed as the breeze itself. It’s slow, yes, but compared to the boats tied up at the dock or stranded in the stillness offshore, it feels like flight. Light‑air sailing has its own kind of magic. Every inch of progress is earned, every ripple a reward. Moving at all becomes a small triumph, a reminder that even the faintest wind can carry you somewhere new.

In our house, we have a quiet language for the clothes our little one is outgrowing. When something is getting snug, we call it a “last day.” It’s our gentle signal — to ourselves more than to her — to savour the moment before the outfit is peeled away for good. A toddler doesn’t grasp the symbolism, of course, but we do. “Last day” is really about us watching time accelerate, stitched into hems and cuffs. These tiny farewells remind us how quickly the days move, and how precious it is to notice them as they pass.

Three days of sailing now, and the nordetº has settled in with its familiar 5–10ºC bite. Hardly springlike for most, but it brings a clean 10 knots in the right places, and that’s enough to make the day worthwhile. The boat felt alive under that steady push, the kind of wind that sharpens your focus and clears the mind. Out there, as usual, I was the only one moving across the grey water. Solitude suits a day like this. A sporting breeze, a cold helm, and the quiet satisfaction of showing up when others stay ashore.

ºNordet — a traditional French cardinal wind term referring to a northeast wind, typically cold, dry, and capable of delivering brisk sailing conditions along the Atlantic and Channel coasts.

There’s a running joke at my office: I’ll randomly drop by my manager’s desk, let out a dramatic, completely fake cough, and stare aimlessly out the window at the trees swaying in the fresh breeze.

This afternoon, the trees were calling too loudly. I took the afternoon off to go sailing, and nature didn’t disappoint. We had 15 to 20 knots of wind in spots. I’ll admit I was a bit over-canvassed, battling the full sails as the boat heeled hard, but that’s all part of the thrill. There is absolutely nothing better than trading spreadsheet grids for open water.

Launched!

Margo Guryan’s “Sunday Morning” opens with a drum fill that lies. It tumbles in like a garage-rock wake-up call—all tom-toms and attack—then instantly dissolves into a floating piano that says shh, it's Sunday. That misdirection is the whole genius in three seconds.

The chords breathe. The woodwind drifts. Guryan’s double-tracked voice settles in like someone still shaking off sleep. I heard this for the first time today, on a Type II cassette with no Dolby and no expectations. Frisson arrived before the second bar.

Turns out teaching an LLM to hear like me was worth it.

Waiting for launch on May 21 feels like someone circled the least useful date on the calendar and said, “Yes, that one.” The Victoria Day weekend lands before it, naturally — a whole stretch of prime sailing weather I can only admire from land. And today? 7‑knot NE breeze, sunshine, 16°C. Practically a love letter from the sea.

Meanwhile, I’m here, boat still high and dry, typing like a man resisting the urge to scream into the void.
At least next spring’s new marina launches on April 15. A radical concept: sailing in spring.