Menemsha Lines

With acknowledgements to Shirley McLaine,
I think I must have been a sailor in another life.
I am Irish.
Stan Roger’s voice pulses through my veins
when I take the ferry to the island.
I am drawn to the water and am at peace listening
to the lapping of an ocean wave on a ship’s hull.
But a vibrating fear lies beneath that becalmed surface.

A near drowning episode while river rafting years ago brought the primal terrors alive.
It resides in my pours and may have been born of a centuries old passage.
You will find me by the water.
Boats are spirit vessels for my soul.
But I do not swim and am satisfied to be a land locked sailor.

I like to walk the Menemsha dock at sunset.
In October it used to be possible to do this alone.
Out back of the fish mongers there is a line up of their trolling maidens.
The fishing vessels knocking her moorings against the wooden wharf.
A rattling of rusted metal chain with links answering the wind.

It is an ethereal endeavor to witness the majesty of these ships.
They move in tandem with the waves. Two of which are never the same.
And the wind dances around and between the ropes and chains
so that their positions are frought with hazard.
And then there is the salt sea.
Wearing away any exposed metal or cotton fiber faster than the eye can scan the horizon.

But I, we all, are of the sea.
The black tar wrapped ropes hold our climbing curious weight.
The hull gone to rust will be painted over on the next winter’s break.
And the lines will hold.
And all our fears will sail away with the next tide.