The horizon darkens cerulean blue with the advancing swell. Waters around me eddy and swirl as the towering face jacks up on Mysto Reef. Lifting its translucent arch skyward, the massive wave breaks like the crack of doom as indignant pelicans take flight.
The following sea bears down like judgement day, forever stalled in mid career; a constant moment leaving me spellbound by its lofty grandeur. I'm lifted high on the watery messenger from Africus' torrid zone, that's come to break in a crescendo of spume on my home town beach. Far down the glistening green wall I behold the western realm of infinite light and repose.
Where has he gone, that apparitional self, who looked into the hollow maw of fear?
*****
In a garage sale, in a dream, I found my old copy of the Aeneid among carved wooden heads intoning prophesies from a laurel shaded altar.
In his wheelchair, dad held vigil from a South Laguna hill, searching the horizon for whales. A watch held in his once stout heart, vestige of the ancient clan, now closeted amid the holies like an old hat. There, shelves of brown lore lay darkening in the suburbs; now dusted off for our perusal, only in dreams.
On the cover was Baskin's drawing of Anchises, hoisted on the shoulders of his fated son, fleeing the streets of burning Troy.
“We are becalmed, mate.” McWhirr's voice seems far away.
“I thought there was always a breeze in Port Madison.” I say.
“Always a memory of one, anyway.”
The boom swings and the mainsail flogs to the sound of pans clattering below. To the North, an abomination of a container ship rounds Jefferson Head, pushing a bright bow wave as it turns southeasterly past the Sierra Foxtrot buoy.
McWhirr, taking his pipe out of his mouth, says:
“How about we crank up old Phyllis and motor over to Indianola Marsh and drop the hook?”
Ducking below, I release the compression levers and bear down on them again as Phyllis springs to life with a steady, thumping rhythm.
Now back on deck, I uncleat the topping lift and drop the main boom onto the gallows before going forward to lower the jib and secure it to the stanchions. Returning to the pilot house to turn the wheel to starboard, I head for the anchorage just off the marsh, passing sodden fishermen tending lines hung over bent gunwales, looking bereft of hope for even an anemic cod.
“Three fathoms. Let go here Mister Spencer.”
“ Aye Captain!” I send the CQR anchor splashing into the depths and pay out twelve fathoms of chain.
Old Hand slowly turns to face northeast.
“The flood has set in already.” observes McWhirr while taking bearings off Point Monroe.
The clouds have lifted to the East where the sky turns violet before falling off to slate gray above the snow covered Cascade Range. Gulls wheel their plaintive cry overhead, dropping white poop into the water forward of the starboard bow.
“ Have I ever told you about the wave I caught in Laguna?”
“I seem to recall the one you didn't”
Let it go then. That was another lifetime. Another has signed on as swab this voyage. I was but a nipper who beheld the hollow countenance of Saturn in the form of a towering breaker long spent on a Southern California shore. Just as now, he faces down from the Northern black clouds; a stern inverted profile mirrored on the sea. He's rough-hewn on the rocky peak yonder, endlessly stumping his sluggish round and enclosing our modest endeavors like the laurel tree's shadow circling over the household gods, ever counter to the golden sun.
“Guess I'll turn in. Goodnight Mister Spencer.”
“And pleasant dreams to you Captain.”
McWhirr goes below and soon the stillness is broken only by his regular snore.
I hear a rush of air from over the rail. A fine mist shoots up and hangs, dispersing into the black sky, before gently closing over the deep sounding whales back.
It's a spirit spout beckoning our ship toward far latitudes where the dark isle enfolds my father's wrack. The whale left this memento falling back into the source this gentle night, calling us to the eminence beyond the Eastern mountains. What salvation can we hope for from that quarter? What windy advent heralds vistas brighter for being reborn? I see beyond the blue peaks to a presence shining from the Seraphim's mansions, an Orient that looms all the more lucid for its absolute inscrutability.
I drift off with Old Hand's easy rocking on the waves abeam.
The night is a vast inter-tidal zone, where I lie aground in dreams until a remembrance intoned, as if from a wooden head inside my own, sings: Wake from the dream of life and see.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
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.
“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.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Shadowlands
3/4/10 1916 hrs. Wind calm
Today we moved a boat that had dragged. Apparently, a visiting power yacht had snagged the anchor gear and pulled it west, where it lay too close to Old Hand. So while Gale and Lee pulled on a 200 foot line rigged from Gale's houseboat to the sloop, Bruce reset the two heavy Danforth anchors in their original position. Amazing what can be done with a little friendly co-operation.
This concept of "shadow" is interesting. It refers to the to the area of bottom land over which boats turn around their anchors. It is the area of bottom "encumbered" (another intriguing term) by the circle of the vessel's scope.
This seems to be one of the main sticking points in negotiations with DNR regarding the open water marina plan and has presented no end of debate among the various parties. It seems we can't just expect to encumber that bottom mud for free while shore side dwellers have to pay such hefty property taxes.
But the landlubber's vantage point differs substantially in that theirs is fixed, while ours varies with the vicissitudes of wind and tide. When the tide ebbs, the scope and the square footage is greater. Therefore, boaters should pay a fluctuating rate for bottom land encumbered according to the water's depth, which is related to the height of the tide and the moon's phases. There needs to be a high tide rate, a low tide rate, and all the variations of depth between the two extremes need be calculated accordingly.
Also, since the prevailing wind is Southerly, boats spend a far greater time occupying the Northern segment of the circle. Why should we pay equally for the Southern? I ask you, is that fair?
But, more importantly, the overlapping circles of all those boats shadows present a perfect model for peaceful, harmonious accord. When the benign countenance of the South wind puffs his bearded cheeks and blows fair breezes into our lovely harbor, all boats on single point moorings turn in accord without one impinging upon the shadow of his neighbor. The space vacated by the Northern most vessel is occupied by it's Southern neighbor with no conflict. What better image of peaceful, coexistence?
It all comes back to this present place and time where our collective karma revolves.
So Thanks Bruce, Gale and Lee for playing your part in this mooring plan.
Today we moved a boat that had dragged. Apparently, a visiting power yacht had snagged the anchor gear and pulled it west, where it lay too close to Old Hand. So while Gale and Lee pulled on a 200 foot line rigged from Gale's houseboat to the sloop, Bruce reset the two heavy Danforth anchors in their original position. Amazing what can be done with a little friendly co-operation.
This concept of "shadow" is interesting. It refers to the to the area of bottom land over which boats turn around their anchors. It is the area of bottom "encumbered" (another intriguing term) by the circle of the vessel's scope.
This seems to be one of the main sticking points in negotiations with DNR regarding the open water marina plan and has presented no end of debate among the various parties. It seems we can't just expect to encumber that bottom mud for free while shore side dwellers have to pay such hefty property taxes.
But the landlubber's vantage point differs substantially in that theirs is fixed, while ours varies with the vicissitudes of wind and tide. When the tide ebbs, the scope and the square footage is greater. Therefore, boaters should pay a fluctuating rate for bottom land encumbered according to the water's depth, which is related to the height of the tide and the moon's phases. There needs to be a high tide rate, a low tide rate, and all the variations of depth between the two extremes need be calculated accordingly.
Also, since the prevailing wind is Southerly, boats spend a far greater time occupying the Northern segment of the circle. Why should we pay equally for the Southern? I ask you, is that fair?
But, more importantly, the overlapping circles of all those boats shadows present a perfect model for peaceful, harmonious accord. When the benign countenance of the South wind puffs his bearded cheeks and blows fair breezes into our lovely harbor, all boats on single point moorings turn in accord without one impinging upon the shadow of his neighbor. The space vacated by the Northern most vessel is occupied by it's Southern neighbor with no conflict. What better image of peaceful, coexistence?
It all comes back to this present place and time where our collective karma revolves.
So Thanks Bruce, Gale and Lee for playing your part in this mooring plan.
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