From the Galley

Racing Her Bounty past the broad bright structures of the Monona Terrace would be the first – and nearly the last for some time – feather in the cap of the newly outfitted Captain Merle.  He had caught the 15 mile

per hour gusts directly in his main and headsail temporarily and knew for certain, with his supreme lack of skill, that one false chugging of wind rushing down the deep alleyways of Martin Luther King Dr. from the capital would likely swat his rigging to a full list and he would be left with a desire for six arms instead of two, trying to devise a more potent way to sail alone.  If he had already devised a way to break down his mast so to motor below the Yahara bridges, it seemed only slightly logical that to devise a sailboat that adjusted its own luffing and reefing and jibbing or whatever '-ing' action word, could also devise a self-sailing device that simply tested the fickle winds and moved right along with them in unison...much in the same way a real captain did it, just a little more sweat and tears.  Yet here was the very flash of the city moving past him in a blur and his center line was sturdy.  Even the lowly seagull had to squawk

upward at the itching of the topping lift at the mast.  There were a few problems ahead, however.  There were other objects in the water.  Some rocks seemed to form to port like a bulwark against his very vision for speed.  Ripples had dropped over a grand patch of the blue water ahead and all of those
impulses towards the next move reduced him to a looseness in the knees that crept upwards towards the stomach and stayed there like a churning pit.  His half day on the water down at sailing school at Captiva Florida, although on the sea, did not prepare him for other moving objects about the water!  A beach lay ahead to the west.  By god, a dock.  Where did that come from?  Like the lost isle of

paradise.  He sullied up the inner drama of a true captain and prepared to "Jibe Ho" by lowering the centerboard, then sheeting the main, turning the helm slowly to bring the stern through the wind.  Luckily the wooden dock ahead held only one boat, just now coming down off the landing on the other side, for with this speed he would, god forbid, have to beach Her Bounty.  If there was one ultimate disaster known to all sea men, veteran or virgin, worse than capsizing in the middle of a body of water at the threat of a squall, it would indeed be the seemingly out-of-nowhere speedy rush of a sloop diving its nose perpendicular to an otherwise placid beach.  He would beach her, let the sails drop, set a roped anchor, then lurch off into the city at Williamson Street smiling like a thief in the night who has just received a diamond for free.