When time permits, I like to eat my lunch down on the Peninsula. It's my favorite place to think. I was there the other day watching the fishermen and small boat sailors working against a nice west wind. It brought back a memory from a few years ago from that same spot of this really old guy prepping an equally old-probably homemade boat to launch in what was pretty rough waters. It made such an impression that I did my best to capture it on a piece of scrap paper in the car.Stiffly shuffling toward the dock-his antique sailing skiff waits. Old sailor, crude craft coming together one more time to challenge the waters. A face so full of lines it looks like cement, his expression shifts slowly as the old man grimaces hoisting the tattered sail. The rust colored multi-patched cloth gulps in a piece of the breeze and together they’re off…two lifelong friends that have obviously performed this ritual a thousand times before.
Almost magically, it happens. Unmistakable elation permeates the severely weathered face and the rigid old body somehow becomes fluid again. Effortlessly, he weaves the tiny craft back and forth across the chop, his face dripping from the spray and the sheer joy of being alive. Completely unaware of his age, he romps like a child at the playground while quickly becoming but a dot on the horizon.
Almost magically, it happens. Unmistakable elation permeates the severely weathered face and the rigid old body somehow becomes fluid again. Effortlessly, he weaves the tiny craft back and forth across the chop, his face dripping from the spray and the sheer joy of being alive. Completely unaware of his age, he romps like a child at the playground while quickly becoming but a dot on the horizon.
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