Stargazer skims down river, free as a bird. A white wake streams astern. Gusts, funneled by the wooded banks, urge us on - faster and faster. Her familiar tiller tugs beneath my hand as Stargazer puts her shoulder down and flies seaward.
It is our first sail of the season. Late coming, but the more prized for that. The breeze steadies as the shoreline flattens to either side. Above the rush of wind and water, the sound of birdsong floats across the marshes.
We wend our way through intricate channels. Withies loll ambiguously atop uncovering shoals, equivocal about where the best water lies. I scan the chimeral, shimmering, shifting textures of the river surface for clues. Eyes flicking from water, to withy, to depth gauge, to plotter.
In a pool, deep in the marsh, nestling at the foot of the North Downs; we find our corner of timeless peace and solitude. A place to regain perspective and to plot a course through the shoals of these strange times. A wary seal circles the boat once, head just showing, then dives, without a ripple -and melts into the stillness.
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