Ornaith Murphy in 1994 Photo Shimon Van Collie

Maybe you know that noted singlehander Ornaith Murphy has been missing for several months. Ornaith, her soon-to-be-former husband Kieran, and Ornaiths Cal 39, Sola III just up and disappeared last December. There's nothing, no clues, no traces, no signs of violence, nothing.

They're just gone.

I remember reading a story in Latitude 38, written by a cruising family in trouble in some heavy weather off the coast of Australia a few years ago. A reassuring voice came on the radio, and a while later, a Cal 39 appeared nearby to lend moral support. Singlehandedly, in violent seas, Ornaith kept in touch with the stricken boat, circling them and talking over the radio with them.

Ornaith rounded Cape Horn singlehanded, losing Sola III's rudder on the trip. She managed to pull through, she was tremendously capable. She was handsome, too; do you know how some women are "beautiful" and some women are beautiful in a different way, a way that requires a different word? Well, Ornaith was handsome. She was tiny, dark haired, blue-eyed and outrageously Irish. I met her once at a Singlehanded Sailing Society meeting and saw her around the SSS a couple of other times.

She's going to be missed, she's missed already.

I don't know why Ornaith's disappearance has bugged me so much, I really didn't know her at all. Yet, it's prompted me to take out my pen and write some real poetry, something I haven't done much in the last couple of years. This upcoming Singlehanded Farallones Race is dedicated to the memory of Ornaith Murphy. Those who race are encouraged to drop flowers on the windward side of the Farallones, or to recite a poem; Ornaith apparently loved poetry. I never knew that.

So, Ornaith, this is for you.

Ornaith

All of the usual images are false they don't add up to any person; liars all. Only I remember adds. Sum: small woman, dark hair, magazine articles, Ornaith, brogue, honest grace gone missing. Missing

Down below is diesel and disarray; a chart, tools, spare line, cushions on the floor; what a mess, it's always a mess; yours was probably tidier I surmise from your experience.

You sailed farther than I ever will, maybe yet you sat by me in sane places after you crossed the bottom of the world and now have just disappeared. Just Disappeared Disappeared is not the seamanlike thing to do

Disappeared is no justice, no harbor, not even rocks and all I just keep thinking is that your name is poetry itself Ornaith, though I only saw you a couple of times in those sane places And I'm sure I can't, I can't can't say it right; Ornaith.

I didn't really know you? Who is writing this? Hubris shouts rudely from behind the helm. I only know the places you've been in an abstract way, better than most, I suppose. Balance, tension, gray and blue, wind, no ice for me. So

I will throw flowers on the water behind the islands will shout a poem and remember you; will ease the mainsheet when I sail the long sail home.

April 8th, 2002