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March 11, 2008
Tuesday Tease: Sea-Fever
Today the sun came out, the mountains stood tall and bright against a blue sky. A chill still hangs in the air, a vivid reminder of winter. The harbor is skinned over with a thin sheet of ice, but spring is coming. Tonight it will snow, then say the mystical weathermen, another sunny day. TWO in a single week. We are in heaven. The sea is calling and I must go. Soon I croon to the Siren. Yet she still sings…
Sea-FeverI must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.I must 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 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.By John Masefield
(1878-1967)
Posted by Michael at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)
March 6, 2008
There before the grace of you, go I
My Dearest Fuzzbutt,
Seven years ago you leaped into my lap and licked my ear. It was love at first kiss. To this day I am amazed at how your body wiggles with such vigor as you wag your tail upon my return. No matter how long I have been gone, be it 30 minutes or six weeks, your joy at our reunion has always been, and will always be a blessing.
Together, in the past seven years, we have skied countless days, in blizzards and under perfect blue skies, under moonlight and stars. We have hiked endless miles, over rocks, up mountains, down desert canyons and along remote beaches…in every type of weather: driving rain, bitter cold, bighting wind, crushing heat, whiteout and in the dark of night, a night so black that I thought we would disappear into some hidden abyss.
You are perpetually ready, always making a mockery of the preparedness of firefighters and paramedics. You are the admiral on our sailboat, a key member of the crew in the greatest adventure of our lives thus far. Our journey to Alaska has brought us thousands of miles, through some of the worst weather I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing, to the most spectacular place I have ever been. You are my greatest ambassador and loyal point scout. You are a beach explorer extraordinaire. You serve on this crew as chief whale detector, bear spotter and salmon wrangler. You diligently defend wherever we call home from the constant threat of your arch enemies: squirrels and birds. I know you will never defeat them; I suspect you are aware of this fact, yet you charge after them with every fiber of your being.
More than being a faithful companion and a daily source of joy, you are one of the greatest teachers I have ever known. Your lessons are as powerful as those taught me by the mountains, by the rivers, by the ocean. You have taught me love. What it means to love and to be loved. You have taught me that everyone is deserving of a big HOWDY! That everyone will smile if smiled to.
These past seven years you have stood atop many mountains, walked countless miles. You preference for organic strawberries and disdain of regular strawberries is the stuff of legend. Your Wooo is one of the greatest gifts from upon high.
Today marks the end of our seventh year together. 2557 days. 2557 amazing, wonderful and precious days. Days filled with head rubs, morning snuggles, doggie dreams and of course Milkbones.
Thank you for coming to me, for sharing your life with me. You are one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. I can’t wait to see what the next 2557 days and beyond bring.
There before the grace of you, go I.
Posted by Michael at 9:46 AM | Comments (0)
March 4, 2008
Horizons
Ahh, the beach. The gentle sound of the waves caressing the sand. A cool drink in my hand. Contemplating the vastness of the ocean, of the sky. Losing myself in the horizon, the endless, unreachable horizon. Most people think of the beach as a warm, sunny place to read trashy novels and surf. To drink exotic tropical concoctions with an umbrella. If this is your mental vision of the beach you are in for a shock.
I have often mentioned that Valdez is the recipient of massive quantities of snow. The snow also falls on the ocean, the beach. The only thing keeping the beach free of snow is the timeless rise and fall of the tide. It is possible to travel, via snow, to the ocean.
We left the car on our skis while it was snowing, the air neither warm nor cold. In my memory the snow makes everything quiet. To the south the mountains loomed in and out of the storm, often totally obscured, faint outlines hinting at what the storm hid. We surprised a flock of white birds hiding in the snow. As the birds took to the sky they would have disappeared in the mist if not for the jet-black edge of their tail feathers. A bald eagle watched over from high atop a leafless cottonwood tree.
We came across the beach suddenly. The smell of low tide, a clean, strong reminder of the past two years. Sharply reminding us we are tied a the dock for winter. When the wind howls through the harbor Bluewater strains at her lines like a wild horse, unwillingly saddled and reined, trying to spit out the bit in her teeth. She talks to me in the night, dreaming, she tells me of her longing, her desire to feel the water rush past her keel, to feel the wind fill her sails. We dream together. Soon I promise. Very soon.
Then, there it was, the ocean, the end of the snow. A clear line, the beginning of one, the end of another. If only all things had such clear beginnings, such clear ends. That day as I followed Susanna’s path through the trees, around the trees, over and under tangled knots of bushes; I thought of another day, long ago. Skiing through the trees, over the trees, around the trees, it seemed endless, the up and down, the never ending path, nothing but trees and the twisting, relentless path. No endless horizon to chase, no incomprehensible distance. Only an occasional flash of blue through the endless treetops and the ever-winding path. Was I chasing a dream? That winding path through the trees?
Our ski lead me to the beach, a clear line of demarcation, but behind that line, where the snow gave way to the black rocks of the beach, there lay another horizon. Another bend. Some place out of reach.
I am neither happy or sad, neither really tense nor really relaxed. Perhaps that is the way it is when a man gazes at the stars asking himself questions he is not mature enough to answer. So one day he is happy, the next a bit sad without knowing why. It is a little like the horizon: For all your distinctly seeing sky and sea come together on the same line. For all your constantly making for it, the horizon stays at the same distance, right at hand and out of reach. Yet deep down you know that the way covered is all that counts.
Bernard Moitessier
Posted by Michael at 12:03 AM | Comments (0)