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The rigging set and baggage loaded aft,
I point the bow into the western gust, as I, alone, will guide this sailing craft. Horizon beckons, wind provides the thrust, the double masts are leaning slightly port, and cutting through the whitecaps is a must. I think about this trip, a last resort, and watch as shoreline features saunter by, still thankful for my family's support. The rat race slowly fading with a sigh, I pray my practice runs had been enough, and judge the risk of tempests in July. My focus changes as the sea gets rough, I drop the canvas sails to fix the sway, and drift back to the overhanging bluff. Tonight, like others in a placid bay, is healing to my mind and aching back. Secluded, I enjoy a cabernet. As days go by, I keep the boat on track, my destination close, the end is near, I've made up for adventure that I've lacked. My jaunt into the nautical frontier has given me the strength that I'll revere. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
February 2019
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