Sunday morning

If you believe the propaganda machine most of the human population spends Sunday mornings sitting in the church of their choice to get the week's marching orders, via a Divine messenger, directly from god his own self. This, some like to boast, is particularly true in the US of A which, we are told, is a Christan Nation. None of this is remotely true of course.

Most people, even the ones sitting in church, don't take marching orders very well. (Though some do, and are an endless source of trouble for the rest of us.) Most of us are not even sitting in church, let alone a Christan one. Accepted reports suggest that, at most, less than half of America's population is sitting in a pew this morning. More detailed examinations suggest that number is far less than half, perhaps even less than a quarter. So for once I am a member of the majority. This Sunday morning, like most, finds me sitting on the boat. If there is a god out there somewhere who wants to tell me something, he (or she) knows where to find me. Any yet...

To climb out the companionway this morning was to be greeted by air that was cold, almost brittle in its clarity, with barely a breath of wind. A skim of ice has invaded the marina over the last couple of cold nights. The gulls are finding places to stand on the water. In some places the ice is even thick enough to support the pair of mink that call this tiny harbor home. What little wind there is tugs at the top of the masts, moving the boats ever so slightly. Just enough actually, to make little zinging noises as the ice gives way. The human congregation in this place numbers exactly eight. Five of us who live (and work on) our boats virtually every weekend with the hope of one day casting off the dock lines for a long voyage. One spends most Sundays here. The final two are office manager and live-on-sight marina manager.

Like nearly ever Sunday morning we gather for the community breakfast - eggs, sausage, turkey bacon, juice, Deb's home made coffee cake, and lots (and lots) of coffee. It all happens without a boss, without an order given, no lists, no programs, we make do with what has been brought. I am useless in a kitchen while cooking is taking place, but clean up is a well practiced routine that is my offering for the morning. After a last sip of coffee we drift off to various projects for the day. Tonight the congregation will number even less, 3, perhaps 4, those of us who don't need to be to work until Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning, who will spend one extra night snuggled against the cold in a v-berth, happy to be where we are.

Far better than a church, it is what community, and good living, was always meant to be.

I love it around here.