It’s day six of being moored within safe waters. Outside, bands of rain beat their autumn drums, cold and soaking. Wind howls through the harbor and mooring lines protest and chafe against the unrelenting pressure. Sea birds huddle en masse, heads bowed in stoic reverence.
Grey above. Grey below. Grey within.
Somewhere else, a harvest moon glows bright on this week of the equinox. Fires crackle. Orange glow on fading leaves. Intentions spoken. Bare feet on bare ground. Gratitude given. Hands lifted. Prayers offered knowing colder days are to come. Life will return. But first, there must be death.
The northern front came in last Monday kicking up seas that were above our working limits. We beat our way through the waves back within calmer waters of Narraganset Bay. It was the first assault of the strong nor’easter that would become our reality by week’s end. A day later the larger ships also retreated within the bay. Foolish yachtsmen, believing they are seamen they are not, call the Coast Guard for assistance.
And so we wait within a protected harbor. Using the time that the storm blows outside to repair what is broken within. I caress my talisman between my fingers and wait for the storm to pass.
