moored and adrift
That rope ties us to our own world.
n a recent conversation with a friend from a slightly lower latitude, a round trip on that imaginary 60th parallel as we become funambulists would prove a cracking adventure! I once pinned this magic number on my Google Earth screen and imagined drifting off like a titanic iceberg. I, vagabond on great oceans, floating freely, what a wild ride! I'd need to trek with a light boat and hike across miles of tundra, encounter reindeers, elks and caribous... As names change through the meridians.
Boreal autochthons as well as ancestors and intrepid adventurers have made such treks - crossed landbridges, straits and isthmi in an attempt to follow life, pursuits or dreams.
It sometimes feels a treasure hunt!
Friend, environmental artist and boat builder Ruth Macdougall has rekindled a childlike dream. We are destined to row a craft that will take us beyond the edge of the mainland. As her beast lies belly-up, ready for ribbing, young Jim Hawkins lives in my heart, as I follow the waterline. We may not trek around the earth but we shall share a poetics as we live through the elements, firths and sounds of the Atlantic and become one nomadic island in the world. Each oar becomes an extension of ourselves, each humli baand, a ring of determination. The more we share, the more excited we become!