The commander got a new power washer from his wife as a Christmas present. Ostensibly it was to blast the sides of his house back to their original pristine color, but in fine piratical style, he shanghaied the thing and dragged it down to Renaissance, restoring the original gel coat finish to a blinding white sheen. He wanted me to make sure that I got it right, report that not only had he used it on Renaissance, but he had also hauled it up to Kemah and given Ciclone a thorough cleaning as well, before doing only half his house….

The commander claims that he knows almost nothing about houses and is afraid to use this type of technology on them anyhow, because one never knows what might happen to inferior latex based paints under the pressure of a concentrated stream of water. Then he might have to repaint the infernal thing as well….

I suspect differently however.

I did not see the commander at all during the Christmas holidays, so I figure he was probably trying to build up a little shore leave by power washing not only his, but his contemporaries’ shoreside abodes too. Currently he is tight lipped concerning his absence from the water front, so I fear the worst.

On the Saturday just prior to Christmas he called though, needing a bit of crew for some heavy weather sailing right on the cusp of an incoming cold front. I wondered if he was mad, sick with not having sailed in a month of Sundays, sick of power washing and crown molding installation,  or was he really serious?

The front was due in after noon, and it was close to eleven when he called saying that he and his brother in law would be at the boat in about twenty minutes.

I hurried over there, and he was in the process of installing the new tiller pilot, putting in a five gallon jerry jug of diesel and stowing the beverages. I hanked on the headsail, rigged the sheets and about noon we chugged out of the channel at Port of Call, into the bay. The wind was already north-northeast at around ten or twelve knots when we upped the canvas, heeling over on a port tack, heading for the powerlines, broad reaching.

Three biologists aboard a single boat means that the collective mentality is divided, not multiplied by the number of bodies present, and today was no exception.

Looking north, a line of black was marching down the Mother Lagoon, and I discreetly inquired about reefing lines. Prudently, the commander switched on the engine as we jibed around on the ship channel, and we both went forward to douse the jib just as the first blast of cold front wind shook the bow and cracked the leech of the genoa like a bullwhip. Wrestling down the main, we powered back into the bay beyond the power lines as whitecaps and swell gathered in impending crescendo. Under bare poles and well heeled, Renaissance plowed back into the side channel, stuck for an instant on the bar at the entrance, probably in response to the water now blowing off of the west side, freed again, motoring back into the slip where we tied up and sat in the lee of the blow, behind tall condos sipping beer.

Afterward I slunk over to Olivia and adjusted the mooring lines as the cold front churned and howled, hoping that it would soon be our turn for a workout. It’s been too long since the canvas was up and we were under sail together. But then, that’s winter sailing at latitude 26.