Location: Gibraltar

Today, I write in remembrance of our old mainsail, Mainsail. We officially changed her this morning, and she’s lying at the stern of the boat, rolled and tied. She was our original sail, built with the boat, although she was more new than old, for all the repairs. If I called her anything, I’d call her Argo’s mother. She raised Argo. She led her through her first sails when she was still settling in, shaky and unsure. She carried her through storms and gales, through messy and careless teens, through ports, docks, and moorings. In her absence, some of us carry a piece of her; some of us just carry her memory. Her replacement is a strong-willed, pearly-white sheet, full of vigor and grit. She came to the boat full of memories and habits, but she’ll soon find herself accustomed to Argo and her spot next to the mast. Some might call her stubborn, slow to accept the positions we put her in, and they’d be right, but I’d rather be led by someone who can keep her course through everything that comes her way.