The Trimaran Blues

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F-27 Sailing

Yeah – so, it has come completely apart. That perfect scheme – the one that would put you over the top and let you sail free forever – has come to naught – crashed and burned. Thank God the boat remains. At least you had the foresight to keep her.

That bullshit career – chimera, illusion, false hope, idolatry – is long dead. Who wants to return to that long grey line of doomed, shuffling, cynical, mean, corporate drones anyway. Thank God the boat remains.

Lovers – they pull us this way and that, attracted by our fierce independence, the music we hear, the fresh air they feel around us. They wish to tame and direct, but freedom cannot be tamed or directed. I am THIS, it is what makes me what I am – you cannot change it. And so I run to the boat – which goes where I will, not where anyone else wills. Thank God the boat remains.

There have been blows…hard, swift kicks to the nads…enough to knock us down, take us out, leave us gasping for breath. But we got up, dusted ourselves off and went home again….home to the marina. Thank God the boat remains.

Trimarans are more than fiberglass and carbon, aluminum and wood, kevlar and spectra. They are music – symphonies of structure, wind and water – they are freedom – they are hope – they are joy. Designed to dance on the edge of disaster – they are jazz riffs, intelligent and calculated mechanisms composed of massive opposing forces, high engineering art, superb.

There is nothing so sublime as a trimaran in full flight – lee bow smoking spray; light, lifted helm; sails pulling like harpooned swordfish; instinctive visceral connection between driver and boat. She dares us to push her as hard as we can – to go as fast as we can. She lures us to explore our limits. And –  so –  we do. And the rest of life falls away.

The scheme has come apart, but the boat remains. The career is in tatters and the lover is barely hanging on. But the boat remains. Keep the boat…she matters.

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