White Sails Between the Fields

It all looks rather ordinary. Going under sail between the fields and cows, beneath wide open highway bridges, however, is anything but ordinary. This was one of those passages. Marco Neetson Lemkes, my sailing instructor from MOSS Sailing in Medemblik, invited me along while he had to deliver a yacht with some technical issues. Crossing open water wasn't really an option, so we made our way through the inland waters instead. The only proper stretch we still had to cross was between Lemmer and Medemblik. Even that turned out to be impossible, and instead of finishing where we had planned, we tied up in Andijk. Funny how I barely remember any of that. I do not remember conversations.

What I do remember is the feeling. Those last warm days of the year. Sunshine, a few clouds, fields already smelling of autumn. I remember Marco's humour. The sort of competence that never needs to announce itself. Humour and good seamanship go a long way. Captain Strawberry was still another three years away. And yet, somehow, all those earlier passages seem to revolve around him now. Memory is strange like that. It reaches backwards. Places that once belonged only to your own story quietly become part of someone else's. Years later, every time we spotted Marco's boat somewhere in an open sea, before I could even wave, there would already be his small voice ringing across the vast expanse of calm seas:

People often say that sailing is about the sea, the adventure, freedom, what not... All of which is true. However I always felt there is more. I think it's about people. It is equally about both the connection between people, and to something bigger - unimaginable, indescribable, but live-able. If only we chose so.