MarginaliaStone Horse – Days 2 & 3
Most people think the captain is always in charge. But there is a brief window every day, ordained by a certain alignment of celestial bodies, when a lowly deckhand is lifted to the pinnacle of importance and completely supersedes the captain’s authority. This occurs when the sun is in ascension, perpendicular to the zenith, in contact with the horizon. At this precise moment a portal opens. Like a Druid at the solstice in Stonehenge, Buddha beneath the Bodhi Tree, Newton struck by the apple, a muezzin singing the sun to prayer from the top of a minaret, the lowly peon is transformed, becomes a priest in service of a god. He becomes “The Barista”. Voices are hushed, movements slow and subdued, until the sacrament is complete. The magical elixir is handed up to each member of the crew for their ablutions. At which point normal order resumes, and he who moments ago held the very mysteries of the universe in his hands, is once again a shambling swabbie, sent forward to haul up the anchor from the mud. Such is the importance of hot coffee on a cold and misty November morning. Mug of joe in hand, we motor out into sunrise on a mirror of polished brass. Dazzled by the light, we drift out of the winding channel until the keel brushes bottom and we ease her back. We round Stingray Point and head north across the mouth of the Rappahannock River toward Windmill Point. Birds perch on the poles of fish traps like crucifixes. The sun boils the mist and lifts it overhead, a breeze riffles the water now and then. […]
