The wind is inconsolable.
Crouching to vent my drysuit,
I hear gravel scatter, greeting calls
as my fellow crew rush to change
for the Shout. What’s out there?
they ask. I tell them what I know.
‘It’s seven and gusting’, our Launching
Authority says, ‘’it’ll be rough by Parker’s.’
This we already know.
One, two, whacks on my back tell me
crew are seated, feet in stirrups.
With an all clear port and starboard,
I open the throttle, launch into the maelstrom.
The water is bruised purple and black.
Our ballast tank full equals the weight
of three men in the bow, keeps our
nose down as we face the turmoil
of this inland sea. On our port side,
a conspiracy of Cormorants
huddle on Salmon Island’s
rocky crop, keeping watch.
In open water the waves
heap up, retching, dumping turf
stained lake across our bow. I power
up the face then throttle off
so we don’t take flight at the crest,
pendulum to a bow over
stern capsize. By Hare Island
a turn to port and a beam sea
makes us wary of rogue waves
quarter side on. I hold a reserve
on the helm - to power us away
from harm if needed, and for safety,
steer in at forty-five degrees.
At Parkers Point with a boxing sea
and pyramid