The water last night was like glass. The air was warm. It felt like the middle of August on the water, not the middle of September. Dan and I were out at Sidney Spit, enjoying a free Sunday evening together, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine, and watching one more golden sunset.
Last night was bittersweet for me. Knowing what our schedules look like over the next couple of weeks, I knew that this was probably the last time this summer I’d be out on the boat with Dan, the last time we’d sit late into the evening, watching the sea and the sky slowly transform from the bright blues of the afternoon, to the pinks of evening, and into the blackness of night. I knew it was probably the last time we’d sit in the cockpit, sharing stories and a bottle of wine. Our summer of sailing adventures, I knew, was drawing to a close.
And knowing it was likely the last of our sailing evenings, I savoured every moment, drinking in the experience, committing to memory the tang of the salt air, the ripple of waves as a seal poked its head up near the boat, the quality of light as dusk fell. I breathed in the warmth of the evening air, the stillness of the water, the quiet rock of waves as one boat after another slowly left the spit and headed for home.
We lingered last night, late into the evening, waiting until night fell before firing up the motor, turning on the running lights, and making our way back toward the lights of Sidney. The sea was calm as we motored home, a deep, inky black. The sky was bright with stars. It was utterly peaceful. As we neared home, Dan pointed to the wake. In the blackness of the water, the wake glowed bright with bioluminescence, the outer edges laced in a shimmering stream of pale green.
Remember this, I told myself, feeling tears rising. Hold on to this perfect evening. This perfect moment.