bridget martin

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.

— John Masefield

We are travelling, wandering, meandering, getting lost, returning, changing our mind, turning back, trying again, and again………..

Sixteen hours after leaving Wales we arrived in Ireland. We dropped our anchor, took our bearings and breathed. After passing the islands of Skomer, Skokholm and Grassholm the sea had been gentle and calm and lit by the sun. We were lucky. And now, bit by bit, we are sailing up the east coast of Ireland towards Scotland. It is gradual, it is slow, sometimes we are stilled, and then we move again.

There are days when we travel twenty miles and take the time to explore the land on which we moor up. Walking an unfamiliar landscape, getting lost, wandering the edges, discovering the mystery all over again. Other days we spend entirely at sea, moving with the rhythm of the waves and our imaginations and spending the night at anchor.

Sailing our boat is slow. This is slow travel. Moment by moment we make our way and at some point we arrive somewhere. Plans are made and remade. And made again. This is the way it is. The ability to always do exactly as you want is denied. We are restrained by the weather, the tides, the time and ourselves. It is humbling, frustrating, complex, amazing.

There is astonishment to be found on the waves, the magical feeling of moving through water powered only by wind and tide. The accompanying sound being the song of the sea. We are small and insignificant amidst the beauty of the planet. When dolphins choose to swim with us they are gracing us, gifting us, sharing with us. And taking nothing. The beauty of it hurts. We are mesmerised by gannets plunging into the waves, by guillemots and gulls and puffins. And the sea, always the sea. We are awed by the profound immense wonder of it all.

There is melancholy too. Somehow, losing sight of land and being in the midst of this vast vibrant wildness, stirs up sadness and despair about our planet, our world, our home. The home that we share. And a feeling of vulnerability heightens the relentless horror at what is evolving every moment of every day within this shared home. Looking into the face of the sea I see no answers only a reminder of our fragility.

And there is fear. The sky darkens and the sea turns slate and the waves become too big and too relentless. The sea feels confused and unfriendly and we feel we are at the mercy of a vast, beautiful, unpredictable force of nature. I don’t mean to be dramatic (this isn’t the southern ocean after all) but it is without doubt humbling. If we misjudge a tidal stream and find ourselves really pushing the boat to get through it’s always a relief to find the right balance again. Once again we are reminded of the unceasing rhythm of the sea, the regularity of its ebbs and flows, the complexity of tidal currents, and its powerful spirit. The beautiful, intricate, mysterious pattern of the sea.

In wandering and travelling into the unknown, we sometimes loop back into the familiar and rest. To pause. The door was always left open and we are welcome. In getting lost we unravelled and ended up finding ourselves again and somewhere along the way we embrace the mystery and discover that we’re ready to head out once more. Head out into the unknown and unfamiliar. Ready to lose ourselves all over again.