More Nautical Art and Poetry

More talents on display

“I like to add pyrography to the paddles, boats and flutes I make.” Doug DuRant

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Last Day in Grenville Channel                 ©Alex Zimmerman 2019

The morning sun at the head of the inlet shines down on the waterfall’s roar,
As another day dawns in a whispering breeze on the trail of sail and oar.
With this wind there might be no need to stretch and pull and curl,
I might have a chance to raise those sails, too long so tightly furled.

So hurry the breakfast, pack up the tent and stow the rest of the gear,
Lower the board, step both the masts, drop the mizzen and cleat it in.
Hoist up the foresail, then from the bottom, break the anchor clear.
Take the tiller in hand, harden in the sheet, and settle back with a grin.

I wish you were here to see me, boys, finally - a sailing day!
But hope is dashed as I round the corner, for out in the main channel there,
The zephyr grows more ever more fitful, then it completely dies away,
‘Twas naught but a vagrant sea breeze, a delusion and a snare.

I lower the rig, fit the oars in the locks and bend my back once more,
And what’s worse luck, I have the tide to buck, all morning along the shore.
As hours tick slowly by, only short breaks can I find, and for them I am more than ready,
In the weakened current behind a point, sometimes there’s even a back-eddy.

Then just when I need it, along about noon, I pull into a small creek mouth,
A place to rest, drop the hook and eat, watch the boats, then once more head south.
The tide’s turned, the sun’s out, the wind’s up, perhaps this time to stay,
I wanted good wind for sailing, now I’ve got it, it’s time to be on my way.

The tide’s in my favour the whole afternoon, though I’m headed twelve mile dead to windward,
Though where I’m bound won’t see me there soon, I’ll be tack upon tack, shore to shore, sailing hard.
Ah, what a glorious sail that day, perhaps the best that ever I’ll see!
Set up the GPS; keep one eye on the telltales, and one eye on the VMG.

The least little lapse in attention, and the speed it drops by a knot,
Concentrate, lad, stay focused!  Don’t deviate your helm by a jot,
And maybe, just possibly, maybe, in this narrow and desolate channel, so very far from home,
If you sail the reach of it, to the best of your skill, though there’s no one to witness your deed,
You’ll win through to a quiet safe harbour, far from the tumult and foam,
Before the tide turns against you and bright day to dark night finally cedes.

A mere mile and a half to the Point now, a couple more tacks and I’m round,
But the afternoon’s gone and so is my tide and with it my sailing wind.
I’m back on the oars, and fighting a slop, left over from out in the Sound,
Now bury the loom of the oar, now slice off the top of a wave, I wish the sea would make up its mind.

I’d hoped to be out of it well before now, near the end of this long, long day,
But there is nowhere to run and nothing to be done, except heave and sweat and curse.
At long last the Point’s gained, and slowly round it I creep, to the shelter of the deep wide bay,
Where the sea is dead still, and quietly I dip and lift the leaden oars, while aching muscles I nurse.

The waxing moon tracks close behind the orange of the setting sun, down the fading blue sky of the west,
As I anchor my boat a cable from shore, I feel I’ve earned me an outsized beer, then a long tranquil night of rest.

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“Some of the watercolors I’ve done” Philip Fleischer

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John Larkin’s painting of his Drake 13' Sharpie

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Another round coming….stay tuned! —Eds