Deep satisfaction comes from the sleek
wooden prow emerging smoothly up
through white soughing water set in
lines parallel with the coast you left
behind at first light, now laid out to
the horizon that stretches infinite. A
pleasure it is to see the planed planks
sibling set, in the shed of sweet sawn
wood and shavings, the dream factory
of vessels to conquer the oceans in good
and foul, spilling off water and cutting a
course through the deep, invisible soon
after you pass through, only the pencil
line on the chart below, all just an illusion
like after the race at the yacht club, sail
furling, belying sheets full to bursting on
the last reach for the finish. Such freedom
under canvas or even oars brings to mind
Telemachus having set sail after his men
loaded up the stores in well ribbed holds,
hoisted pine-wood masts after a start with
crewmen singing, swinging the oarlocks into
wine dark seas, canvas bellying out as the
wind hit full and they could go plunging all
night long into the dawn. As a boy I lay on
my bed, a print on the wall, apparently Drake
telling stories to two boys in the sand, fingers
pointing seawards, weaving wild dreams into
life charging stories for boys hungry for some
adventure. How many have set sail towards
distant horizons, unsure if the finger pressed

caulking will fill in the gaps, protect holds are

well-stocked with food and frightened livestock
and whether the compass and the chart and

the incomprehensible stars, will point, lead
them, in the correct direction across lumpy
oceans, bays, straits and channels. So much
reliance on timber selection, straight edging,
strength and flexibility, true lines, and tongue
and groove to be dependent on, bunking down
for broken sleep leaning against the groaning
planks, the hull surfing underwater, its lines of
displacement integral to safe passage. I sailed
once with a global circumnavigator, crusty faced,
gimlet eyes always on the horizon, reading both
ocean and winds, sleeping like a horse in short
shifts on his feet, hand free from the tiller,
self steering, but he always holding gently with his
subconscious, trusting in his own company, like
I was an illusion come in from across the water, and
ours was only a skirting of the continent, delivery
for money, his bread and butter, but it was high
seas, and his risk aversion survival was my salvation,

still treasure the gifted hand written chart, his stub pencil
scratchings, calculations of invisible pathways,
an insight into ancient mariners coursing the
ceaseless creeping of the ocean covered globe,
always the promise of going somewhere else

always a sanctuary beyond the visible horizon.