I love them –
except when they make my stomach heave and have me clutching at the mast for support. Some boats are squirrely, zigging and zagging through the water, sails strapped taut, intent on winning that race, upsetting but the most iron of stomachs. Others, round-bottomed and plump like a Rubens painting of a voluptuous woman, make slow and steady headway even through sloppy seas. Those are the ones you want to go cruising with (plus, of course, a good-looking skipper).
Here, at the venerated San Diego Yacht Club,
you have your choice of boats to look at;
unless you meet "a man with a boat."
Pacific Ode
Having been raised a nimble mountain goat,
I felt amiss around this small-hilled Finest City.
With so much ocean ev’rywhere, I thought it was a pity,
not to be known by an experienced man who sailed a boat.
With great resolve, dressed to the nines,
I slipped into its oldest venerated Club-de-Yate
where I pretended to belong, and drank cafe-con-latte
before I click-clacked down those loose-planked chines.
'Hey, Sailorman,’ I said with my considerable charm.
‘You have a spiffy little ship. And I can see you care.
With these thick ropes strung ev’rywhere
you have to be quite good, lest you do yourself some harm.’
'I am the Skipper,’ said the gray-locked gent.
‘And this here is my bristol vessel.
The ropes you’re standing on
are lines around my cleats
which, once aboard, turn into sheets.’
'What are you saying, Sailorman?
I can assure you that I speak se
English good.
But thrash me with your sailor-lingo,
it goes beyond my ken.’ My assertiveness by now unglued.
'Come on aboard, my pretty lady,’ the handsome hunk invited.
His sun-burned hands extended down; he pulled me up to roam.
He briefly stopped to smile, however,
when my stiletto heel bit into closed-cell foam.
He swallowed hard but remained calm, still not averse,
and pointed out clew, tack, leech, vang, and boom;
then handled me quite pleasantly down his steep stairs
where I plopped into a seemingly all-purpose room.
He proudly showed me his salon and gimbaled galley,
then squeezed me forward through a narrow alley.
‘And now, my dear, the time has come to show you my forepeak.’
Whence I suppressed a panicked female shriek.
'Why, Sailorman, I am a stocking’d lass,
and it is much too soon for you to show your—peak to me.’
Kissing me soundly on the lips, he laughed with glee:
‘Soon, you’ll sail her like a champ through the tightest pass.’
Once ready to assist in docking the well-waxed double-ender,
I stood a-port, right elbow hooked around a shroud for sole support,
the bowline at the ready in my nerve-iced left
when, for whatever reason, I unwound my right-hand bender.
Despite blue-blazered grace, the inevitable then took place,
which much confounded hot-shot Sailorman of IOR-dimensions.
Yes, indeed, as you have by now surmised,
this mountain goat turned mermaid, San-Diego-Bay-baptized.
Of course, I quit my job and gave my scrawny cat away
to move aboard with a brand-new French pressure-cooker pot.
Equipped with Dramamine, assorted spices, and the lot,
I was prepared to stay.
Boot-stripe immersed, we journeyed through Nirvana,
not even loathe to share the odious cleaning of the head.
We kissed and laughed, and baked fresh pressure-cooker bread
chock-full of ripe banana.
Until, one raging night, quite unexpected,
I was struck down by Neptune’s vengeful ax.
While I lay felled by this debilitating mal-de-mer,
head-splitting Wagner chants supposedly helped him relax.
I could have died, I felt so bad.
Insanely hating those black squalls,
I vowed to stay alive if only with the last of my remaining strength
to cut off Flying Dutchman’s valiant ... toes.
The thought of this kept me a-gag; secretly, I planned the lot:
Without the called-for proper juice,
I’d throw them into my French pot
where, within pressure-cooker time, to powder they’d reduce.
The morn’ arose with brilliant hues.
Dawn brought with it a tranquil sea.
I instantly forgot my inner-ear unbalanced blues
when Dutchman had hot java and a toothy grin for me.
I was so grateful then that in the throws of my malaise
I had not done the ugly deed
and, quickly, I assured myself that ever-dancing Skip’
still sported pink appendages which he and I would need.
I kissed those rosy toes, excitedly a-mutter
with great enthusiasm, new resolve, and ease.
As Dutch’s Senta I would follow him along the path of stormy seas
through whatever Neptune had in store for his well-found cutter.
Alas, one day, my Sailorman, he sailed amok
with a young steel-bunned looker.
Which left me standing at the dock
with useless lingo, and an empty pressure cooker.
* * *
Excerpt from my Moments of the Heart, A
Book of Poems and Short Prose
