It’s a late summer afternoon, quiet and bordering on evening as the sun drifts towards the horizon. The breeze built up over the day but has settled down to just a whisper across my ear as I turn my head. Small waves slap at the hulls of the moored fleet, but never manage to do more than top the boot stripes.
There’s a choice to made, and really only one right decision. These gorgeous evenings are fleeting. Without any exchange of words, my wife and I agree to go for that harbor burn.
A short row in the dinghy and Ben-Varrey is greeting us with shimmering topsides and an eager dance about her mooring. I slide the companionway hatch open and let the warm air escape the cabin. There’s no gear to stow, but it’s habit and lets me check that everything is in order.
We slide the canvas cover off the main and while Alison leads the jib sheets, I hank on our blade—plenty of sail for this casual outing. The main is hoisted and the boom gently sways over the cockpit. The mast winch ticks as I raised the jib. I slip the mooring line, backwind the jib, and we fall off to port, underway. Drawing in the mainsheet, the main fills and forces our rotation into forward motion. Gentle touches of the tiller let Ben-Varrey elude the moored boats and eloquently carve her way to the center channel. We harden up and dip in and out of the edges of the sleeping fleet. Well-timed tacks make it feel as if we are in open water.
The smiles are contagious from friends who are tinkering or lounging onboard their own boats. We are all right where we need to be.
We ease the sheets slightly as the wind continues to drop and sail past the breakwater. The glow across the landscape warms with each minute that passes. Cuttyhunk looms 8 miles to the south, and we can see the Vineyard through Quicks Hole. Perhaps this weekend will send us in one of those directions. Tonight, though, is not about a destination, but rather enjoying exactly where we were. And isn’t that the beauty of sailing anyway? Being caught in the moment as soon as we are underway?
We throw in a jibe and I hoist the spinnaker. Our speed steadily increases as the apparent wind shifts forward and Ben-Varrey’s spoon bow cuts through the flat water. The sky throws light shades of orange and pink on the sails, and the only sound is the water rolling away from the leeward side.
We work our way back to the channel, turning deeper downwind, and drop our speed to the equivalent of a stroll through the harbor. Ben-Varrey meanders her way back to the northwest corner, where our empty mooring is only a handful of boatlengths away. Alison flips the spinnaker sheet off the winch, and as the fabric starts flying freely, I douse the kite. Slowly but smoothly we harden up to a reach and then bring Ben-Varrey into the wind. The main flutters as we let her gracefully glide to her mooring, stopping just as the bow overshadows the ball.
Securing the pennant to one of the bow cleats, we let the main waft down. The sky is entirely afire, and the last breaths of breeze flutter across the water’s surface, leaving ripples as the only hint they ever existed. Sometimes a lap around the harbor is the perfect recipe for a summer evening. Revel in the simplicity—breathe, relax, and immerse yourself in these moments as time nearly stands still.
June/July 2025
