We swing at anchor, light breezes and tide pointing us north, with our stern to shore.
“You should be writing,” scolds my inner critic.
Defiantly I crack open a well thumbed space opera recently acquired from my favourite used book store. Across the bay a woman’s voice balances atop the comforting strains of a banjo. Two people appear to be practicing in the afternoon sun. I fold my book, as doing both listening and reading feels dishonest.
Our day, which began hazy and overcast, is now hot by my standards. My husband lies below on the settee, also reading. A draft from our forward port light soldiers through the salon to escape up the companionway, probably cooling him as it passes. Sluggishly I consider my sticky situation and ponder the value of erecting our sunshade. Weighing benefit against activity I select to shift instead to the other side of the open cockpit. This effort is rewarded by better exposure to the music and a fresher breeze.
Too soon the wind and music turn off. We are left to spin idly as the boats point every which way in the absence of tide and breeze. This is my favourite time of day at anchor. When the neighbours cease to point in the same direction as though in rush hour traffic and appear to stop and chat about a day well done.
From high in the southwest corner of the bay, strains of bagpipe music curl down to me and my heart rises to meet it. I can’t help but wonder if I am the only one appreciating this gift of raw sound. As it passes through me the hair rises on my arms.
I am now small, holding my dad’s hand at the parade. His large freckled one squeezes mine completing a circuit of excitement. He grins down at me, face flushed red and bouncing slightly, “ the pipers are coming,” he says. Indeed they are. The first few impossible notes reach my ears and penetrate my young bones transforming me in to a person who runs forward rather than back.
Silently I thank the anonymous piper for fine memories of my dead father and reach for my pen and notebook.
