Not too long ago I would have thought myself crazy to go more than three or four days without climbing about on the old girl, spraying down her deck, or going for an evening sail in the Bay. If I didn't see her nearly every day, withdrawl symtoms began showing themselves: a cold sweat on the upper lip, clammy hands, blurred vision, hives, dry throat, shortness of breath, fainting spells, memory loss, and finally death. Thank the gods I could spot the signs early or you'd be reading a bunch of nothing right now. Then again... Anyway.

Now, however, Good Omens, our new (to us) Shannon 50 is all we think about. September Song is just another obstacle between us and our departure date in June. Or is she? She carried us to beautiful mosquito-free anchorages, through harsh summer storms, across slightly too shallow shoals, under incredibly brialliant stars, and into a life of endless horizons bounded only by the gentle caress of ocean. She is a part of us just as all our friends and family are a part of us - those living and those not quite so living.

Yesterday following our hello kiss, I ran her engine and genset for thirty minutes after cleaning out the appropriate sea water strainers and checking oil levels and fuel filters. She purred along expectantly, waiting for me to release the dock lines and back her out of her slip. But she knows we're letting her go. She knows we've given her up and she waits. She waits for her new owners, whomever they may be, to come and love her. To kiss her twice on the bowsprit, jump aboard and sail her to another mosquito-free anchorage under the blazing stars.