The Race at Flander’s Dock

Oh to have been a sailor.
Not this landlocked lub of an ocean going wannabe who is afeared of the water.

My partner swims like a dolphin.
Even as I write these last few painters notes she is at the lake.
Wading out past the noisy children into the deep water. Her sanctuary.
Where slowly and gracefully she laps from rope to rope easing away the stresses
of the blazing summer heat and my hormones.

In another life, perhaps, I too swam.
For I love all things about the water.
Boats and ropes and rusting chains, greek fisherman caps and schooners,
waves and whitecaps and wind in the sails.
All from the safety of the shore.

So, shiver me timbers,
When next week we are on the island.
And all those squealing funsters are riding their boogie boards in the cooling summer ocean.
I’ll happily settle for watching my babe gliding out there
enjoying the open water for both of us.

I’ll have your towel ready for ya.