Small on the Sea

Small on the Sea

Looking down on it from the pier, it seemed sturdy in its squareness. It wasn't huge, but could sit six people: three in the back, one at the controls, and two in the front.

I wasn't expecting to ride in the skimmer but I'm always ready for adventure, so I hopped in. I had assumed I would watch the regata from the nearby beach, even though I wasn't really sure what a regata was. I had pictured a procession of sailboats serenely shifting by like I had seen in St. Augustine, but there was nothing serene about this one.

I had a front row seat which was completely exciting and scary at the same time. I quickly acquiesced that while we were trying to skim the surface of the sea, she was swirling up and down, sideways and backwards. She was the Ruler and wanted us to know that. My stomach sloshed with the boat's swallowing downward movements and I was glad I hadn't eaten breakfast. I felt the piece of sandwich I had bitten off before stepping into the boat becoming stomach acid.

Despite the initial sensation of sturdiness, in a matter of minutes I saw how utterly small we were. The ocean was just playing with us. The regata contestants lunged into the waves, shouting to switch the sail as half of the boat went under. They had one person assigned to bail out the water weighing them down. They tugged and pushed, glided when the wind supported them, and then scrambled like mad when the sea had other plans.

Our boat was the point of reference for the regata. There were horns blowing and flags on a flimsy pole that signified where we were in the race. There was so much to do in such a tiny time and space: the unfurling of the little flags, the throwing of buoys and an anchor into the sea, the lifting of the final large flag that signaled it was all over.

I had entered into the sea world and it was fascinating. All one's energies went into what was essential at the moment. So, sea life must be all encompassing. There was no room for the mind to wander. A mindfulness exercise to the extreme.

Photo and Text: Kristen Mastromarchi