Eight point three pounds. Gallons upon gallons. Displace me now.
The one word to learn. In any tongue is thank you. Rising from your bunk.
I touched her hull but she barely twitched. “I am tired, hurt, and scared,” she said in a rattled whisper.
She was weighed down by generations of neglect and good intentions. She wanted to it all to be over, to be put to rest. The ice in the Hudson heard her and tried to help, only to be plucked from obliviation by good intentions once again.
Bread baking on a sailboat is more efficient using packaged yeast than maintaining a sourdough starter. But if you are looking for efficiency, you are probably not particularly interested in sailing either.
Warmer is the dawn. Still low and south though you are. Sullen chaste for now.
In the last few weeks, every conversation started with the wind and cold, moved to the President’s tweets, before returning to the cold and the wind.
But there is hope.
Someone noticed that diesel had accumulated in an area of my boat where the fuel tanks vents. This does not typically happen when I fill up. So what could cause that? How could a tank be full in the evening and subsequently overflow?
I blame the cold.
I once passed out, drunk, resting my head on the curb outside a gas station. I was kicked awake by a Sheriff’s deputy. He sent me home after I explained that I was just waiting for the store to open so I could buy a pack of cigarettes. He could have bundled me into the back…
Molten on water. Crystals arranged on a breath. A threat for later.
Standing on the fuel dock, filling cans with diesel for my heater, as a dozen or so Sunfish tacked to and fro, at the mouth of the Morris Canal basin and the Hudson River. As I loudly cursed my gloveless hands, aching as the wet snow melted on my skin, they filled the grey with…