?Sunday sail, ne?er fail.? What better day to take out the L?ir Mothan for her first run of the season than on Easter Sunday? This wasn?t a trip to go fishing ? although that too would have been appropriate. No, Hudson had been watching wind and waves for days, the currents and the turning of the tides. He had already worked out the shifting of his hours at the warehouse with Rhys. And the new assistant by this point was capable of taking over his job entirely. A fisherman tried never to leave those on shore unprepared.
?Shun agus saor agus naomhaich sinne; bi-sa, Righ nan dul, air ar stiuir ad shuidhe, ?s treoirich an sith sinn gu ceann-crich ar n-uidhe. Sain us and shield and sanctify us; be Thou, King of the elements, seated at our helm, and lead us in peace to the end of our journey.? Hudson was on one knee in the prow of the boat, and as he murmured the words he stretched out his net-scarred hand to touch a small charm of a pair of crossed iron nails fastened there. It had been a thoughtful gift from Juliane, and just in time, delivered only the day before. Prayers and superstitions. A fisherman believed because in the middle of the ocean, there was nothing left but belief.
It was a satisfying feeling, to be venturing onto the water once more. Hudson wore sturdy boots, fisherman?s trews of tightly woven canvas, a light shirt with a thick wool sweater pulled over, and a smile. He leaned forward to push off from the dock and then settled onto the bench and seated the oars. He would row out far enough to be in clear waters when he lifted the single small sail. ?Le gaotha caona, caomha, coistre, cubhr. Gun fhaobhadh, gun fhionnsadh, gun fhabhsadh, nach deanadh gniamh fabhtach dhuinn. With winds mild, kindly, benign, pleasant. Without swirl, without whirl, without eddy, that would do no harmful deed to us.?
The oars cut through the water cleanly. Hudson settled into the rhythm of rowing easily, feeling the pull and stretch of muscles which had become unaccustomed to the work. The wind on the ocean was chill enough despite his labors that he paused to pull on a black knit cap, low over his ears. Sunlight glittered and sparkled on the slight chop and turned lingering fragments of ice into frozen rainbows. There weren?t many other small boats out on the water, this early in the season, but Hudson saw a few sails soaring gracefully over the water.
Gulls gave their raucous cry, screeched as they whirled around the mast. They soared on the wind with barely a flick of their wings, and Hudson paused as he stood to move to the lines which would raise the sail. He turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes briefly. Salt tang flavored the air and the crisp wind carried foreign notes, ones that he still was not used to. The ocean didn?t have the still, calm peace of the loch ? but it had strength and power and the wild flavor that turned men to the sea as a lover.
The sun was warm beneath the cutting chill of the wind, and Hudson opened his eyes to look at the line of the horizon, where clear blue sky met the deep green of the waves. He smiled and turned to raising the sail. Soon the crisp snap of canvas in the wind accompanied the slosh of chop against the hull. There was a faint scent of varnish and new canvas underneath the sea scents. It would fade within a week.
Hudson stowed the oars and rested his hand against the tiller, feeling the play of water over the newly-repaired rudder. For now the wind was moving in the direction he wished, and he did little steering. Only enough to counteract the current which seemed to want to sweep back to shore. Here, on the boat, on the water, he was home. ?Iarramaid gach sian a Dhe, s reir do rian ?s do bhriathra fein. We ask all things of Thee, O God, according to Thine own will and word.?
?Shun agus saor agus naomhaich sinne; bi-sa, Righ nan dul, air ar stiuir ad shuidhe, ?s treoirich an sith sinn gu ceann-crich ar n-uidhe. Sain us and shield and sanctify us; be Thou, King of the elements, seated at our helm, and lead us in peace to the end of our journey.? Hudson was on one knee in the prow of the boat, and as he murmured the words he stretched out his net-scarred hand to touch a small charm of a pair of crossed iron nails fastened there. It had been a thoughtful gift from Juliane, and just in time, delivered only the day before. Prayers and superstitions. A fisherman believed because in the middle of the ocean, there was nothing left but belief.
It was a satisfying feeling, to be venturing onto the water once more. Hudson wore sturdy boots, fisherman?s trews of tightly woven canvas, a light shirt with a thick wool sweater pulled over, and a smile. He leaned forward to push off from the dock and then settled onto the bench and seated the oars. He would row out far enough to be in clear waters when he lifted the single small sail. ?Le gaotha caona, caomha, coistre, cubhr. Gun fhaobhadh, gun fhionnsadh, gun fhabhsadh, nach deanadh gniamh fabhtach dhuinn. With winds mild, kindly, benign, pleasant. Without swirl, without whirl, without eddy, that would do no harmful deed to us.?
The oars cut through the water cleanly. Hudson settled into the rhythm of rowing easily, feeling the pull and stretch of muscles which had become unaccustomed to the work. The wind on the ocean was chill enough despite his labors that he paused to pull on a black knit cap, low over his ears. Sunlight glittered and sparkled on the slight chop and turned lingering fragments of ice into frozen rainbows. There weren?t many other small boats out on the water, this early in the season, but Hudson saw a few sails soaring gracefully over the water.
Gulls gave their raucous cry, screeched as they whirled around the mast. They soared on the wind with barely a flick of their wings, and Hudson paused as he stood to move to the lines which would raise the sail. He turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes briefly. Salt tang flavored the air and the crisp wind carried foreign notes, ones that he still was not used to. The ocean didn?t have the still, calm peace of the loch ? but it had strength and power and the wild flavor that turned men to the sea as a lover.
The sun was warm beneath the cutting chill of the wind, and Hudson opened his eyes to look at the line of the horizon, where clear blue sky met the deep green of the waves. He smiled and turned to raising the sail. Soon the crisp snap of canvas in the wind accompanied the slosh of chop against the hull. There was a faint scent of varnish and new canvas underneath the sea scents. It would fade within a week.
Hudson stowed the oars and rested his hand against the tiller, feeling the play of water over the newly-repaired rudder. For now the wind was moving in the direction he wished, and he did little steering. Only enough to counteract the current which seemed to want to sweep back to shore. Here, on the boat, on the water, he was home. ?Iarramaid gach sian a Dhe, s reir do rian ?s do bhriathra fein. We ask all things of Thee, O God, according to Thine own will and word.?