Following Sea |
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overwhelm. Hard to
believe when you're out there, fighting the tiller, watching out for the jibe. One by one each swell builds behind the straining dinghy and, as
if to move
on to the larger task, lifts it like a drifting plastic milk jug
and passes under, bearing down on our stern now, encouraged by a stiff southwest
breeze, overtakes, shoves our little sailboat this way, that way, moves
on. Because I am afraid,
my senses are all I know. Deafening wind in my ears. Mainsheet chafing
palm. Leg muscles tuned to this tango. I see the world as it is, all at once: storm
petrels and shearwaters, pitching horizon, buoys, calligraphies of clouds, boats
passing. And, peripherally... What did
you say? Turn toward me so I can see your voice. Suddenly, there is the smell of honeysuckle! The very repetition of waves reduces fear to acceptance, then
monotony. By Portland Head, swell has lost to tide and current, persists as
nothing more than a string of watery nudges: the past, the past, the past, taking
forever to catch up. And move on. What's left
behind...whitecaps simmering on the surface. --Marie Harris |