Archive
06/27/09 - (2)
Five Sailboats
It's a perfect day for sailors, at the boys' camp, To gain hands-on training, learning the foul-weather ropes, Since Lake Nebagamon is all frothing waves, A colossal chaos of tumultuous drizzle and squalls Just below the scudding turbulence of the ubiquitous gray sky.
From my water's-edge vantage, in this cabin, I admire the graceful symmetry of five sleek vessels, As they skim the lake's choppy surface, Thread trajectories, tacking back and forth, gliding, And my veins pulsate, vicariously, with the boys' excitement.
I can still feel the surge of those boats, Their sails inhaling stupendous blasts of chill air, Running out from under themselves, as if yanked by Zephyrus, No matter that fifty-five years separate me From today's novices manning the helms, tillers, halyards.
Suddenly, one of the fleet is caught off guard. Struck by an oncoming truck of a gust, broadsided, It hurls its occupants willy-nilly, into the cold chop, Then turtles, even its jib now invisible; Only its rudder and hull show above water.
Startled, I watch while the crew of three teenagers, Woefully unmatched against the weight of the fiberglass craft, Hangs, helpless, onto the gunwale. After a half-hour struggle, they bring the sails up, Right the craft, pull themselves aboard, bail, head back to camp. Sitting here, at the kitchen table, an aged landlubber, I'm grateful for being safe, warm, dry, Yet realize, in my comfort, what I'm missing: The exhilaration that engenders from taking chances, spills, The thrill of derring-do that lasts youth a lifetime or two.
06/27/09 - (2)
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