Blackwattle's Tough Guy says Get the Birds off my Boat!

by Nancy Knudsen on 20 May 2007 It's a few weeks ago, in a marina, as we are preparing the boat for crossing the Pacific.

We're cleaning and scrubbing, ready for the long drought of our ocean crossing – water will be scarce from now on, no marinas to splash water around freely.

Suddenly I hear loud expletives coming from the aft deck.

'What's the matter?' I call.

'Those damn birds!' It's Ted, the Skipper/Deck Hand/Boat Scrubber.

'What's wrong?' I climb on deck to see what the commotion is about.

I find him ferociously attacking the dodger with a brush. 'That's it! No more of these damn hitch hikers. Look at all this bird shit all over the canvas – I'll never get it out.'

(Frequently, little birds land on our boat, usually at night, for a rest. They sit, exhausted, their feathers ruffling backwards in the wind. Sometimes they tuck their head under one wing and sleep it off, disappearing at dawn.)

'Hitch flyers', I giggle.

'What?' Irritated, not listening.

'Hitch flyers – they are called hitch flyers, not hitch hikers..'

Ted looks up from his furiously shuffling fist and stares at me, blinking a little.

'What?'

'Never mind.'

He goes back to scrubbing.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to now. We're sailing and Ted's on watch.

It's the middle of the night and I'm dreaming about eating ice cream in a smart café, everyone else is nattily dressed, - glow of pearls at throat, brush past of Xenia suit, flash of crimson fingernails, tinkle of crystal - but I am in old shorts and T shirt.

Rubbing on my arm. Gentle touch waking me. I reluctantly leave the ice cream and find Ted towering over me in the bunk, two fingers raised vertical in front of his closed lips.

'Your watch, but quiet as you enter the cockpit – we have a visitor.'
'Where? Where?'

He's whispering. 'On the back hatch – he's been there for a couple of hours.'

I grin to myself, and obediently sneak up on deck, making sure I don't disturb our newest hitchflyer..