Eight point three pounds. Gallons upon gallons. Displace me now.
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.
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…
There are thousands of reasons on hundreds of days that made him happy to be living on a boat. Winter, in New York, however tested him every year. He lay in the v-berth before dawn. The wind howled through the rigging while it blew snow upon the deck like tossed sand. He was bundled between a comforter…