Broaching the dream.

It was a lazy winter afternoon. The sun was stingy. The welcome wash of light through our bedroom window was reluctant to warm. Being buried under a duvet helped, but no electric blanket. The power was off. Loadshedding.

Perhaps that needs to be explained. We call a small city in the Eastern Cape of South Africa home. Unfortunately, we do not have enough power stations to meet the demand for electricity in South Africa. Eskom, the state-owned company that manages every aspect of the electricity supply, has calculated a complex schedule of power-on and power-off that nobody understands and can change its mind.

This schedule sets out blocks of time when the electricity is turned off in determined areas. This allows the power ‘on’ areas to have enough to function normally. Traffic lights work, you can boil a kettle, and charge a phone. The result is that here, in Grahamstown, on some days we spend two hours in the dark (sometimes metaphorically) and on other days six hours. The pattern of power-on power-off rotates around this rainbow nation.

 However, this is a friendly part of the world, so we help each other. Despite our own woes we export at least fourteen billion kilowatt hours of power a year to seven of our neighbours. Yes, that is a lot of power. And no, I don’t understand why either. But I digress. Back to bed. Monique doesn’t do winter well. There are good reasons for that. That’s why I raised the idea of an endless summer.

I described a time in my life, a long while ago, when I avoided winter for six years. Yes, I used sunscreen. Baz Luhrmann would be proud. I possess a Royal Yacht Association Yachtmaster license, and I have used it. I spent more than a decade sailing. In part it was a career. I worked for a yacht management company. My job was to deliver new vessels from the factory to their owner. That always involved an Atlantic crossing from either the west coast of France, or Cape Town. The destinations were varied, but mostly a Caribbean island.

I have accumulated a lot of nautical miles and in that time have experienced many aspects of the ocean’s moods. On the one side of the scale were Caribbean coves, crystal clear seas when you don’t need a dive mask to see the coral. The water can be warmer than the temperate breeze. That part is the place where post cards are made.

But the scale has two trays. The ocean is moody, sometimes belligerent, occasionally deadly. She can be a screaming banshee, cold and confused; her army of waves attacking from every direction, and you’re trapped in a vessel that takes all your focus and physical strength to control. That can last for days. At the end, as she settles down, exhaustion sets in. If you have relief to take command, you will sleep in a bunk that feels like a cloud. Don’t expect a post card.

That is yachting, both heaven and the unpleasant alternative. It would be an unrealistic fantasy to dream that you could stay in the post card forever. Unless you want to gunk hole around some sheltered archipelago. The next playground could be an ocean away and in the blue water, she has an eye on you.

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