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The Storm (His Wind)

Original poem composed by Gil, recited at the Squirrel send-off.


Up at Dawn
Coffee and scone
Down to the bayside shore
There she lay
Lashed to the quay
The boat he calls MERLOT

Lines to tend
The jib to bend
Stays taught aft and fore
Cast off young man
Firm tiller in hand
To search for wind once more

They steamed as one
Towards the sun
The bridge too began its rise
Out t’ th’inland sea
There some breeze
Sails hoist, MERLOT alive

Falling off, making way
Sheets firm, not strained
Distant clouds a welcomed sight
Steering t’wards them
Anticipation on the helm
Ready to meet natures might

A sudden fresh blow
Fills his searching soul
Too late to reef the main
She’s fresh and she’s wild
Sometimes harsh, sometimes mild
Not one that he can tame

Hardening up he points high
Plunging forward, heeling by
Gunnels drowned, white spume galore
This gale long in wanting
Now proves somewhat daunting
As he spies the looming lee shore

Maneuvers are needed
Helms a lee, jib sheet cleated
As she settles on the portside tack
Disaster averted
Seamanship asserted
Confidence growing as he makes his way back

Docking lines made
Sails flaked, safely stowed
A smile as bright as the day
He’s found his true wind
His wind it still blows
His wind he calls Renee

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