Weighing Anchor

Yes, I know it's been a while since I've posted anything significant--aside from Mr. Masefield's wonderful poem, which seems to sum up my sea-going predilections perfectly.  It's been a great leave; busy with projects in both New York and Virginia (more on that later), plenty of long walks in the woods with Lucy, my infinitely Better Half, and our little English Bulldog, Delany (otherwise known as Woola--look it up!).  Evenings of star-gazing and a terrific recital of four-hand piano music, a drive to Drakes' Island (Maine) for a Beach-combing weekend, a fossil-hunting expedition amongst half-billion year old stromatolite "sea gardens", and of course the joy that comes of holding my Love close, of feeling her head on my shoulder as we drift off to sleep, the deep sorrow of that final kiss and last wave goodbye before I begin the long drive back to Virginia, back to the sea.

I'm in Newport News now, plying my limited 'handyman' skills in preparing our little house for occupancy;  after our two-year experiment of living in New York we have decided for a myriad of reasons to move South once more.  Thankfully the old manse never sold in our absence (thank the economic nightmare of the past four years for that blessing) and remains in good condition; most of my efforts are toward cleaning-up the mess left by our tenants and some light repair work.

Next Monday I'll be attending small-arms (M-14 rifle, M-9 pistol and 12-Gauge shotgun) and security training at a facility not too far south of the North Carolina line, and the following week I'm due to report for duty and assignment to a ship.  This, as they say, is where things get interesting...stay tuned!

Sea Fever

Sea Fever

John Masefield

(1878-1967)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking,

And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.