In writing this memoir I initially had decided against a prologue. I wanted real-time continuity from page one until the end, allowing readers to be a part of the adventure the whole time. From me quitting my job and then fixing up my boat Kismet, until we set sail and circumnavigated Scotland, and then eventually returned, weatherworn and wiser for it.
But as I was editing after my first draft I realised the tone of the story is very different in part one, which deals with the burnout, quitting a job and working in a yard during cold winter nights to fix an engine and a broken boat. The rest of the story is about the sailing adventure: the waves and wind and wild; the drama and difficulties of sailing, as well as the beauty of it. So I thought I’d try writing a prologue of a short failed trip a year before the start of the main story in the memoir. The prologue sets a vivid scene and tone more similar to later in the book and hopefully brings readers in through the more immediate action. And I quite like it, I think it’s effective, and hopefully it works to draw readers in and give them more of an idea for what to expect from the whole memoir.
Let me know what you think!
The author and skipper sailing in the Firth of Forth aboard Kismet
Prologue
I am alone in the North Sea in my small sailboat. I left Edinburgh at first light and am now somewhere east of St Andrews. I am in search of something, or perhaps trying to escape as I sail my little ship Kismet, a twenty-three ft sloop, single handed for the first time. We’re seeking adventures along the coast, heading north to see how far we can make it. It’s an ambitious trip for so small a ship. I’m surrounded by gannets gracefully cruising the skies, and in the water, puffins drift lazily in the sun, their colourful beaks reflected in the still water. I’m trying to make my way to Stonehaven, a few hours further north, with tide and wind.
There is an awareness out here at sea of the immense forces all around, of the ceaseless power of the tide that flows like a great oceanic river, and of the wilful wind, fickle and unpredictable. These great forces – great spirits of the earth – are in charge of life out at sea. If they so choose, there is no fighting, nor harnessing their inexorable, unlimited power, one can just hope to endure. But occasionally, like now, they let you in, allow you to coexist in their domain, and in a small sailboat borrow some of that power. And when tide and wind and waves all harmonise with your little ship there is occasionally a moment of pure magic; you feel at once exhilarated and content in this union between the elements and your vessel. In this union is the truest form of peace that I know; it is when I become one with the rhythm of the sea, of the regular movement of the waves and tides; and when the gusts and lulls of the wind flow and merge and become an extension of my senses. When I am absorbed in that moment, and the blue horizon is all I see, and the only witnesses are gulls and gannets, that is when life makes sense to me.
This feeling is what I am searching for as I sail northward, bow pointed towards Orkney and Shetland. But unfortunately, the wind has just died and it’s drawing late into the afternoon. The sails are flapping gently in the occasional breeze. I go down below to make myself an early dinner in the light of the setting sun. I’m at peace in my little ship, enjoying the solitude, and the distance to land based life; enjoying being surrounded by sea and birds, far from it all. I turn the stove on and start preparing some pasta.
As I work down below I sense our movement changing as the wind picks up. The sails no longer flap and the wind hums in the rigging as we start surging forward. I quickly finish the food and go back out on deck to take control of the tiller. We are finally sailing! We are picking up speed and the bow is splitting the water into two waves, leaving a long wake that merges into the wavelets behind us. But the wind is rapidly increasing, building in strength and pushing the sails harder. My little boat is heeling over more and more and the tiller is getting heavy. I realise I need to reduce sail before the rig is damaged. I pull on the furling line to take away some of the headsail but nothing happens, it is jammed. A lump of fear grows in the pit of my stomach. I try with more force, but it’s no good. I get up on deck and head to the bow, carefully balancing as I walk in the increasingly difficult conditions, and we bob up and down the growing waves. I work to free the furler, pulling and twisting with increasing desperation and force, but nothing is helping. Then snap! A bolt breaks and the whole forestay comes off from the bow, headsail still flying. Shit! Is the mast still up? I glance behind me, and to my great relief the mast is held up by the remaining stays, but the forestay is swaying wildly, sail still out in the increasing winds. My heart is racing and hands are shaking as fear and adrenaline surges through me. With perilous effort I manage to lash the flapping sail around the forestay, and tie it down to the bow rail so it doesn’t swing around and break the ship or the mast. It’s still attached at the top of the mast, but the bolt on deck can’t be reattached.
What do I do? I’m dazed, unable to think. Eventually my mind clears a little and I attach a halyard as a makeshift forestay, securing the mast and the rig, then I take the mainsail down as well and start the engine. It takes several minutes to start, an old corroded piece of metal. Come on, please… Finally it comes alive. I’m just past Arbroath after twelve hours of sailing out of Edinburgh, and all I can do is to turn back into the approaching night, tail between my legs.
As darkness descends I motor back towards home, with a broken ship and a broken spirit. This was meant to be my first serious sailing adventure single-handed, and I have already failed, less than twenty-four hours in. As the sun goes down, so goes my last ray of comfort and hope. In the dark of night, alone on the North Sea in my little ship I suddenly feel so small and helpless, at the whim of the awesome powers of the increasing wind and waves as they toss me like a cork in a bathtub; a lonely little boat on a stormy sea.
I motor through the dark night, shivering and cold and exhausted from a lack of sleep, as I peer into the darkness, avoiding lobster pots, shallows and fishing vessels. I’m hallucinating shapes and creatures in the dark, just outside the edge of my vision. It feels like a fever dream; my brain losing track of reality as tiredness starts breaking the barrier of my mind and I fight to stay awake. The droning of the engine is everything as I blip in and out of consciousness, unsure of where I am and what is real.
In the early morning, after endless hours of fighting sleep, a small band of light finally appears on the horizon, and as it grows brighter it dispels some of the cold misery in my mind. Eventually the sun rises, and with its warming, reassuring presence some hope and energy floods back. I’m still afloat, engine still running and the mast still stands.
The welcome gentle warmth of the rising sun
As I approach Edinburgh twenty-four hours after leaving, the engine starts coughing and hacking, no longer running smoothly, despite having a nearly full tank. She gives up her last sputtering cough and dies just as I pass the breakwater into the harbour. I only just manage to drift onto the pontoon and moor up again with the help of some friendly sailors that help catch my mooring lines. I immediately head down below and fall asleep. A few hours later I return home, any hope of further sailing this season obliterated. Rigging broken, engine broken, my little ship barely functioning, my dream of a sailing adventure dashed by the capricious North Sea. I’m sorry, Kismet. We weren’t ready.
I would love to hear your thoughts around the pros and cons of prologues in both fiction and narrative non-fiction. Did this prologue draw you in and make you curious to read more? Let me know why or why not!
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