Navigating the seas 3

“Watch yer jibe, ya square headed flounder!”
“Aye, Cap'n.”
Looking up at the lifting boom, I turn the wheel to weather and it settles again to horizontal.
“That's better, lad, ye'll be a sailor before long.”
I've a mind to tell McWhirr he's an imperious old stiff. But there's no call to sulk this fine Spring day.
The Genoa blossoms before the following breeze like the sweet buds of May. As McWhirr scans the far horizon, I venture a change of subject:
“Last night there was a spirit spout rising into the sky.”
“That so?”
“Aye, sure as I'm standin' here.”
“What's all this about Anneas? Wasn't he a Roman?”
“A Trojan, sir.”
“And what has he to do with this voyage?”
“I don't know Cap'n.”
“Then I suggest you leave off dreaming and mind your course in the here and now, old son.”
McWhirr is not given to associative thought, being a gnarly old salt with little tolerance for nonsense, lording it over my left hemisphere.
President point is abeam and the Kingston ferry can be seen heading East three miles ahead.
“Better get some rest, lad, as we won't be raising the canal before dark.”
At McWhirr's welcome suggestion I go below and fall out on the pilot berth.

Golden coins of sunlight play on the deckbeams as I gaze at the weatherglass mounted on the bulkhead. Cloudy vapors churn and turbid forms emerge from the glass's hylic mist like foam lifted against the windblown sea in a spray of rainbow light. Waves rise and fall with a gentle caress on the ocean's silver mirror. The virgin, rising from the engulfing flood, floats before me with the elegant symmetry of old Mexican icons. It was her three tears dropped in widening circles on the samsaric sea that caused erring tars to lift their eyes to higher spheres where mercy reigns supreme. She is called Our Lady of the Reef.
Goddess, grant that I may descend the shadowy realm and again take my father's hand. Your tears forever engraved on the waters' face left this cypher; a testament to your power to guide my pilgrimage. Dad's image rose before me, drawing me on this quest among these shades. Along the shore his bones still roll with the tides uneasy flow. From San Pedro docks he fought to stem the pachuco tide, defending baseball and satanic chemical industry. It is for me alone to give the proper rites that he may rest peacefully in the verdant Elysian grove. It was foretold that his ghostly hands held the last strand in the long thread binding this epic yarn.

~~~

I'd driven sixty miles west over washboard road, past boojums and datillo in my scoolbus yellow VW van, listening to 60's surf music and breathing dust. Past checkpoints manned by green clad boys with machine guns glinting, past bones of donkeys bleached by the sun, until the sea breeze cleared my vision and a vast estuary opened on the blue Pacific.
Abreojos is a small fishing village of plywood shacks on the Baja coast, where grinding barrels break over shallow reefs and the wind howls blue blazes every afternoon, throwing white rooster tails off the backs of pitching breakers. The town has a fishing co-op, but their only boat broke up on the rocks when, after a tequila fueled celebration, a storm caught them napping. Now the fore section of its big hull lay on the main town playa, a warning to all to keep a weather eye out for the Chubasco's wrath. A caution against disunity of purpose among various aspects of someone or something.
Abreojos. The town's name seems apt. It means Open Eyes, and the longer I stayed in the village, the more my eyes opened to its stark beauty.
There's a graveyard on the dunes South of the village where gaudily painted tombs hold the remains of dead fishermen. Glass covered niches in whitewashed sepulchres hold relics of its tenants lives: baseball gloves, plastic action figures or cheap guitars, to commemorate their passions and ease their dark journey in the next world.
The light of the full moon bleached the strand as I walked south along the path winding through thorny scrub, past half buried debris, to the dunes base. My shadow rose before me as I ascended the hill. An Albedo moon, washing over the sand, left the charred hollows blacker than black. The air was filled with swirling breezes telling of fisher men's ghosts hovering among these dunes, mending starry nets and singing the old Mexican birthday song.
In daytime, the graveyard is a riot of color revealed with garish splendor by the high noon sun. By night, darkness obscures the stony epitaph and shadows hover over all. By day, the wind-blasted salt flats glare with a clarity that burns the eyes. The thousand phantoms night disclose withdraw in sunlight and take their repose, sleeping peacefully under plastic flowers, a threat no more to pious souls.
What truth do these images reveal: The broken hull, the bleached tombs, the revelation of Our Lady of the Reef? What visible expression of the invisible?

It was your image, come in dreams, dear father, that set my course toward your dark habitation. I long to clasp your hand once more and learn the fate of our future clan.
Three times I have tried to nail this story. Three time its vain words have left me grasping at empty air. Like you I struggle to find expression of an unnamed, ancient rage. Like you, I transmute the leaden ore of misshapen phrases into avowals of love from the hearts golden core.

McWhirr rouses me with his loud hail:
“Ready to jibe mate!”
“All ready, Cap'n.”
I haul in the mainshheet as Mcwhirr turns the helm, presenting Old Hand's port quarter to the southerly breeze. We are making a good run past Appletree Point and the fishing boats off Point No Point can be seen five miles beyond the starboard bow. We are rolling wildly now in the wake of a passing ship and from below comes a cacophony of pots and pans.
McWhirr's weathered face is a study of angular detail as he looks at the chart.
“We should make Foulweather Bluff by nightfall.”
“Would you care for crumpets and tea, Captain?”
“Does the haddock fly? Make it nice and strong. We'll need it for this night's passage.”
On Old Hand, tea is observed with the decorum of high ritual and to shirk tea duty incurs the displeasure of Captain McWhirr.
Nothing better than tea and salt horse as the Ventures regale the crew with sonic arppegios and soaring reverb while porpoise frolic at the bows.