Rivendell
Following Sea
Marie Harris
Not that the chrome-blue, white-lipped waves don't overtake, it's that they
don't overwhelm. Hard to believe when you're out there, fighting the tiller,
watching out for the jibe.
One by one each swell builds behind the straining dinghy and, as if to move
on to the larger task, lifts it like a drifting plastic milk jug and passes
under, bearing down on this stern now, encouraged by a stiff southwest
breeze; it overtakes, shoves our little sailboat this way, that way, moves
on.
My senses are all I know. Deafening wind in my ears. Mainsheet chafing palm.
Leg muscles tuned to this tango. I see the world is as it is, all at once:
storm petrels and shearwaters, pitching horizon, buoys, calligraphies of
clouds, compass, boats passing. You. What did you say? Turn toward me
so I can see your voice.
The very repetition of waves reduces fear to acceptance, then monotony. By
Portland Head swell has lost to tide and current, persists as a string of
watery nudges: the past, the past, the past, taking forever to catch up. And
move on.