Tired. Or, which tack?

I’ve been falling asleep on the settee in the salon lately, listening for faucets running or the rig shuttering in gusts of wind or murmurs of discontent from the guest cabins. What do I do all day to make me so freakin tired? Coffee and tea and fruit and scones into wiping and shining and sighing into hauling up sails and trimming and multiplying my freckles in the sun into sandwiches and sodas and salads and cookies into dropping sails and tidying lines and picking up moorings and dropping anchors into swimming (glorious swimming!) into cocktails whiskey gin vodka and cheese and crackers and chopping cutting sautéing baking in the cave of the galley into desserts and stargazing (glorious stargazing!) into cleaning and medicating and goodnights into falling asleep on the settee in the salon, listening.
On the horizon the islands rise steep and puce out of the sea glass green water. The wind builds and foams and caresses the sea, the sails fill white taut, the hull slips through the waves and I wonder where my life is. The full bellied clouds drift over my sun bleached head. I’m tired, but not too tired to think of the future. To wonder how this floating life will dissolve or endure, like the sand of Josiah’s or the boulders of Virgin Gorda. Will I tack or jibe, or maybe just heave to? The sea churns questions in a rarely placid mind.
Maybe one of these days I will fall asleep in a bed, in a house, on land, listening.
To myself.

But missing the breeze.