Part One, trying to get there!
We left, as the gray dawn light,
was touched with glints of gold.
Spruce trees, black along the shore.
A Southeaster, blew bitterly cold!
The Genoa, crackled a greeting.
The wake, followed, marble white.
The burgee, waved at seabirds.
Our spirits, joined them in flight.
Demelza shouldered the sharp seas
that snapped at her bow and stern.
She rolled in a sort of a corkscrew,
that caused my stomach to churn.
Later that day, past La Conner,
with the wind gusting thirty; we judged.
We discovered, horror of horrors,
that the head was totally plugged.
Our skipper, a man decisions said.
“Lets fix the blighter right now.”
His mate, mainly me, said. “OK Skip.
But I didn’t mean it, you know.
For heads of my acquaintance,
are never a fun job, I’ve found
and this brute had anti siphons,
which are bitch even when sound.
The snake of the piping was brutal;
with fangs of sharp steel wire.
And blood flowed freer than sewage
as we groveled in pungent mire.
The boat heaved below us.
The sewage swept to and fro.
The plug was of hardened salt crystals.
There was no room for arm or elbow!
But the skipper was really determined.
The mate was not quite so keen.
His stomach was also revolting
and his face a pale shade of green!
The skipper, with hammer and chisel,
attacked the reluctant plugged pipe.
The mate left him, to his pleasures
while he fled on deck, feeling ripe.
The wind was now fairly roaring.
The skipper was roaring as well.
“Where are you Dave.” he hollered.
Dave answered. “I’m feeding a swell.”
Helms persons, on watch, had a problem.
‘gainst wind, tide and sea, we stood still.
The light was fast fading to evening;
so, tail tucked, we turned back, with a will.
La Conner street lights, brightly beckoned.
A lone dock, awaited our claim.
Shepherds Pie quickly settled our stomachs
and the head was pumping again!
***************
Part Two, other adventures and fun
Early we slipped from La Conner.
Sunny and warm was the day.
Breakfast, sizzled in the galley.
Fair currents, helped us, on our way.
Our trip, to Seattle was easy.
Though we had to motor along.
For the day was as soft as feathers
and the breeze, as the lilt in a song.
At 14.30, we entered Big Lock.
Our sins, set before us, that day
and the stench of diesel engines
was the price, we were forced to pay.
The “Stink Pots” gurgled grandly;
to fill the lock with their smoke.
Their sticky fumes were bluey gray
and we feared that we might croak!
Why can’t they turn their engines off?
Which would be rather nice.
But I suppose the need is for,
hair dryers and crushed ice!
Seattle Yacht Club greeted us
with smiles, despite the clock.
and we were soon snugly berthed
along side yacht Gairloch.
Big Jim, the Club’s Vice Admiral;
they did not say which vice!
Introduced us to his favorite brew
and we downed it in a trice.
The Admiral, Bob, in wondrous togs,
gold braid and tricorned hat,
A man of smiles but all the while
he had his job down pat.
Though opening day is lots of fun
it also takes hard work and ‘admirable’
Bob and Jim and Jane,
their duties did not shirk.
And so the days went sliding by,
with luncheons, tours and fun,
until it dawned, Opening Day,
the Sail Past had begun!
A myriad, of varied craft
went swanning down the Cut.
In wondrous guise or mini size,
they were there, to strut their stuff.
Then almost last, though never least.
A call went on the air.
“Did you forget to call the best,
Royal Vic, is waiting here?”
“Come now.” they called. “we wondered where you raffish lot had fled.”
So smart as paint, with out complaint,
we did, just what they said.
Then 45 to port, we turned.
Back straight, then 45 starboard.
Again and again we turned to
bring the cheerers close aboard.
Each time we turned, we faced to greet,
the greeters on the shore
and they all called.
“Well done Royal Vic,
you are a splendid few!
We think that you are best of all !”
We thought, that they were too!
David Garlick, Aboard SV Demelza, Puget Sound, May, 2001
A small list of strange English words and phrases:
Blighter = (slang) An annoying person or thing.
Croak = (slang) To die, possibly a death rattle
Raffish = Rakish, in the sense of this poem,
piratical Swanning = (slang) To float gracefully, also debonair
Tricornered hat. = A three cornered hat.
