At sea, 42nd day of Firith
On my recent stay in Mithlond, I received word from the yards that one of our vessels there had just completed a refit of her sailing rig, and was near-ready to return to service at sea. I saw the potential to fulfil a promise made to a friend some time ago, and have arranged matters so that a crew from the Mithdirith might take the Gwingriel out to sea and put her new rig to the test!
Leaving Aearandir to make final preparations to victual the vessel, I returned to Thamas Lorn to gather a willing crew of volunteers keen to feel the spray on their brow! Durthand and Aearlinn I spoke to first, and they were filled with joy at the prospect, Durthand having promised on earlier occasion to teach Aearlinn the fundamentals of sailhandling. Other dear folk of the herth were invited also - Istuir, Cirdamir, and Aegledor among others - then I sent word to our dear friend Galvathalion, informing him of this opportunity to experience the dance of a vessel with wave and wind!
Over the next few days, I invited a few other friends to join us, if their time, duty and inclination allowed; I foresaw a most delightful gathering form, and a chance for us to enjoy a much-needed moment's pause amid the maelstrom that has tainted Arda latterly.
At last! The day had arrived! As gulls filled the harbour with their cries, the new-found complement of the Gwingriel made their way along the southern quayside of Mithlond on a fresh Firith dawn. The haven was a hubbub of activity, with ring of hammer and buzz of saw drifting from the boatyards along the dock. Not far from us, a fishing smack was landing its night's catch, the crew calling to each other as they hoisted boxes onto the quayside. The morning sun caught the silver-mailed fish at the top of the salt-filled boxes, and their scales gleamed brightly in a myriad of rainbow hues.
Other fisherfolk were busy nearby, mending a swathe of net stretched out along a series of posts. As they worked, their voices rang out in turn, singing a light-hearted round about an elf's misguided attempts to catch ever-bigger fish in an ill-fated attempt to woo the heart of a less-than-willing maiden of Forlond. They waved in greeting and smiled as we passed.
The air was filled by a heady blend of scents: of the fish, of seaweed, of salt, of fresh-sawn timber, and of paint, dye and pitch. Shortly, we passed by some sailmakers' lofts. The doors were open to the morning air, and great rolls of canvas could be seen within, and lengths of linen suspended from the ceiling on a network of rails and ropes in various shapes and sizes. Only three of the sailmakers could be seen, standing outside the shed by a woodstove and kettle, enjoying some fresh-brewed tea.
At last, we reached a quieter corner of the docks, berth to a handful of grey-painted hulls. We arrived by the Gwingriel, moored to cleats on the quay, a short gangway spanning the slight descent to her deck. The formerly white hull had been given a fresh raiment of greyer hue, that she might more easily elude the eye of unfriendly watchers; Gwingriel had become a grey swan.
Aearandir called in welcome greeting from the deck of the vessel, and we bade the others to cross the gangplank, and step aboard their new home for the next few days. For this would be no short cruise within the Gulf of Lhun (pleasant as that may be): rather, Aearandir and I purposed a short voyage to let those of our party truly acquire a taste of what it feels like to be at sea, beyond the sight of land!
At once, we could see how strange the deck was to some: as we introduced them to Gwingriel, some stepped with great caution, running glance and finger over rope and rail as a youngling, new to the world. Such is a ship to those more familiar with forest, town and hill; but to we - the Falathrim - it is as home, and as perfect in form and purpose as one may desire. Yet I could see interested eyes and ears as we answered our friends' queries, briefly describing the purpose of this fitting, or that rope, and their tongues tried the flavour of these new words.
We introduced them to their seachests, within which they could stow their gear, and beside which they could settle down, should they need to rest. Leaving them to become used to the vessel, I inspected and discussed the fresh rig and paintwork to the vessel with Aearandir, who then appraised me of the victualling for the short voyage. Stores enough for a fortnight or so - certainly far more than we would require.
As the sun lifted into the sky, and with the wind favourable, we made ready to depart. Those mariners among us slipped easily into the busy routines of ship handling, while those unacquainted kept themselves out of the way as orders, directions and reports sang back and forth between the crew. The pennant of the herth was hoisted to the top of the mast; the mooring ropes were unbound, and the sail unfurled as Cirdamir pushed off from the quay wall with a sturdy boathook. The bow came round and the canvas began to flap and billow as the morning breeze found the sail; I eased back on the tiller and Gwingriel nosed out towards the opening of the harbour, where the choppier water of the Gulf awaited us. Trimming the sails, we gathered speed, and were soon skimming along to the west, the sun lighting the stern and warming our backs; the kiss of the spray was invigorating and the gentle oscillation of the deck stirred the spirit with joy!
Glancing at our passengers, I tried to assess how they were taking to this novel experience: were they also exhilarated? Or were they perhaps less than comfortable? I know the Sea holds awe over many of our cousins, some of whom have always dwelt far off, removed from its sight and sound. To not know its song...for its movement, colour and scent to be strange beyond words and comfort...I cannot conceive; for these things are so utterly woven in me, as natural as drawing breath.
And yet, I have met many from Lórien and from Greenwood the Great, and in them I sense the cradle of their woods: their raiment - their very hair - infused with the scent of leafy glade...the breath of the trees they call home; I see their eyes wince in the glare off the water, yet become content and at ease in the shade of a tree. These I sense, and all becomes clear: their home is a place I would deem strange; my sea is their forest, their trees are my waves.
We sailed west. Near noon of the first day, we could descry the fair port of Harlond to the south; mid-afternoon, we passed close to a vessel sailing eastward, whom we fell in with and hailed for news. She was the Elamdir, out of Forlond, bearing a party of Elves to attend the Great Ball hosted by Bar-en-Vanimar in Falathlorn several days hence. Giving promise to greet each other over some wine, we wished them safe passage, and resumed our course westward.
Arien outpaced us over the course of the day, and by evening, it seemed we futilely pursued her, as the sun dipped to the far horizon before the bow. The stars kindled above us as we began to pass through the southern extent of the mouth of the Gulf. This gap - some seven leagues wide - marks the end of the relatively sheltered waters of Lindon and the start of Belegaer...the Great Sea, lying beyond.
We drew attention to the distant watchlamps in their towers: one on the south cape - closest to us - and one on the north headland - more distant from us, but its bright light still visible on this clear night. We hail them, these steadfast guardians of the Gulf, and lamps of welcome to all Elven mariners! Our voices then lifted in a tuneful lilt, and we sang the first bars of our Song of Return; the melody we would complete only upon the occasion of our safe passage back into the Gulf.
The coastal waters of Lindon were not running much of a swell - a noticeable yet gentle pitch was all - and perhaps just enough to help some aboard the Gwingriel to gain their sealegs. We steered now to southward, following the bend of the coast of Harlindon. I watched and listened with interest at the first impressions made on those aboard who were unused to this fresh perspective of the land.
A vessel is never static - it is not as predictable and unchanging as constructions found on land: there, a tower sits still in the place it was raised; a hall ever gazes upon the direction decided as its foundation stone is laid. In contrast, a ship is like a restless mount, always given to motion: at rest, it rocks to the caress of the gentlest wave, or tugs sharply against its moorings, keen to be away, that it may fly free with the winds! And under sail? Then it becomes a thing of life, beauty and grace unto its own! The bend of the yard...the billowing curve of the sails...the low thrum of a breeze plucking the ropes aloft...and the ceaseless rise and fall of the hull, as it breathes with the rhythm of the Sea.
We were blessed with a mild wind, and sky near bare of cloud that first night. Never venturing more than a few leagues from the shore, we took in the sail for a short time and shared a meal and some wine under the starry vault, while the waves lapped and gently rocked the Gwingriel as she drifted with the current.
Come the dawn, we sailed closer to the shore of Lindon. Letting the others try their hand at tiller and rope, we gently encouraged our passengers to get a feel for the rudiments and joy of sailing. The myriad mariners' terms for various ropes, fittings and concepts clearly confounded some - but I think there was general eagerness to learn and a willingness to engage with this strange world at sea!
Mid-morning, we steered for the shelter of a quiet bay on the coast - close to Neniath. We would spend much of this second day enjoying the pleasures of walking the strand; of paddling the shallows barefoot, and in exploring the minute world of the rockpools...
