Sitting on my porch, listening to the whistling wind, I recall a time not long past. I would often sit as far up the main mast as possible. This gave me a wide view of the ship below me. When I started off I would pull extra duty to stay out of the rigging and for some time my world was down there. It was an interesting life. The days would be filled with work and rarely did my gaze wander to the ocean all around me. It was as if my whole world lay within the boundaries of the wood as surely as the Great Fish the watery firmament. After a time, though, I tired of the conversations and intrigues of my companions and sought refuge in locations removed from their machinations. One of my best companions sought the comfort of the bowsprit because it lay so far forward the boat, but my stomach tended to be uncomfortable in such constantly varying movement. Strange it was that this should be so, I nevertheless found comfort such that it was in the sea. There was a camaraderie amongst us, as sharing some adventure, some hardship. We measured ourselves daily against one another and the wild waters about us. At night, I would pull myself high and with pipe in hand, sit with feet dangling high above the others, smoke for a time and drink my share of rum. Beneath me I could sometimes make out pieces of conversation mingled with the sounds of the wind on the sails and the sound of water against the hull. It was strangely comforting in a hypnotic way.
Getting along in years, I have had time to sit and reflect on my many years at sea and certain conclusions cannot help but intrude on my mind. Some have claimed that we come from the sea, and it cannot be denied that a strong sense of comfort can be found in the familair creek and whine of block and tackle. The stretching and winding of rope against wood was like a mothers bossom, the gentle swaying and purring of the ship lulling me to sleep more effectively than any day on land. I chose a seaside home to retire to so as to be closer to my home on the water. I could hear the siren song inviting me to it, the gentle lapping of water against shore and it has always been with watery eye that I've had to deny my lover her wanton desire to embrace me.
Any man that has lived on the sea and run aground on shore to stay, goes about his day with one eye ever on the sea, and counted himself lucky to have lived it. A melancholy cloak descends on us all, the weight of our denial heavy on our shoulders. Wistfully, do we bemoan our weaknesses. Only as men can we meet life eye to eye on it's greying waters. As old men we are ever longing to return. All else lacks the import to pull our attentions long away from it. The sea is our mother and her call ever whispers soothing encouragements for our return.
Getting along in years, I have had time to sit and reflect on my many years at sea and certain conclusions cannot help but intrude on my mind. Some have claimed that we come from the sea, and it cannot be denied that a strong sense of comfort can be found in the familair creek and whine of block and tackle. The stretching and winding of rope against wood was like a mothers bossom, the gentle swaying and purring of the ship lulling me to sleep more effectively than any day on land. I chose a seaside home to retire to so as to be closer to my home on the water. I could hear the siren song inviting me to it, the gentle lapping of water against shore and it has always been with watery eye that I've had to deny my lover her wanton desire to embrace me.
Any man that has lived on the sea and run aground on shore to stay, goes about his day with one eye ever on the sea, and counted himself lucky to have lived it. A melancholy cloak descends on us all, the weight of our denial heavy on our shoulders. Wistfully, do we bemoan our weaknesses. Only as men can we meet life eye to eye on it's greying waters. As old men we are ever longing to return. All else lacks the import to pull our attentions long away from it. The sea is our mother and her call ever whispers soothing encouragements for our return.
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