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Red Six
The first time of the season, we took a sail.
We didn't have a name, but we'd prevail.
Not knowing that we would find one,
We started off into the deep ocean.
We're having fun and we'll soon head in,
When our ship took sail and there was lots of wind.
At the peak of our journey, we decided to turn.
The wind on the sail, it began to churn.
Not being careful, not watching where we were,
Hoist the main sail and the jib secure.
Watch your head, here comes the boom,
For we would be on our way home very soon.
The wind sped up, our boat was doing tricks,
Without a doubt, we'd hit Red Six.
We quickly regrouped and checked the side,
Only to see a big red paint smudge.
Down the channel and to the right,
Was the buoy called Red Eight.
We were surprised we pulled through with a smash,
We motored back, still smiling about the crash.
The summer flew by, and our boat still nameless,
My idea was to name it without the lameness.
The story of our boat's name, the first buoy we hit,
The wonderful, incredible, fabulous Red Six.
To Daddy, Love, Katie 10/29/98
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A boy looks at his father gently gazing through the large sunglasses
at the floundering sail. They haven't moved in an hour.
The wind, in its empowering way, teaching the two, showing them of their
withdrawal. Yes, these two life-forms, stranded on a small, fifteen-foot
sailboat are addicted to action.
They are learning all over again how to enjoy it when time stops.
The silent father says a million things.. .things that, as the boy watches,
he sees in himself. It is the simplistic enjoyment of being controlled by
the most powerful entity and not being afraid.
He sees his father and wishes he could see what he sees. He desires to know
the things that his father knows. The child closes his eyes and wishes
his father could know what he is thinking. An emotion.. .one that words
do not convey in a way as to express the feeling in it's pure form,
but then again, only the most important ones are that way.
As his eyes re-open to the shimmering glare on the sound, he throws a
smile at his father, as soon as he's not looking.
And, as they pull in to the dock of reality, one last realization comes over
him, bringing him peace of mind in this world. ..I'm becoming you more
and more every day. ..and that's truly a wonderful thing.
Love, Jeff
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Dance the Boatman
by Anonymous
The boatman he can dance and sing
And he's the lad for any old thing.
Dance the boatman, dance!
Dance the boatman, dance!
He'll dance all night on his toes so light
And go down to his boat in the morning.
Hooraw the boatman, ho!
Spends his money with the gals ashore!
Hooraw the boatman, ho!
Rolling down the Ohio!
From Louisville down the Ohio,
He's known wherever them boats do go,
Dance the boatman, dance!
Dance the boatman, dance!
He'll drink and dance and kiss them all,
And away in his boat in the morning.
Hooraw the boatman, ho!
Spends his money with the gals ashore!
Hooraw the boatman, ho!
Rolling down the Ohio!
The gals all wait for boatman Bill,
For he's the one they all love still,
Dance the boatman, dance!
Dance the boatman, dance!
He'll buy them drinks and swing them high,
And leave in his boat in the morning.
Hooraw the boatman, ho!
Spends his money with the gals ashore!
Hooraw the boatman, ho!
Rolling down the Ohio!
Love, Jessica
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Sea-Fever by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking
And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea gulls ciying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife
And all I ask is a merry yam from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
("Trick" in the last line of the poem is the time a sailor spends
at the pilot's wheel steering the ship.)
Love, Gen
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