Loving People, Living Poetry

2/23
Work has been going really well. The leather work has been a great project. I have been sewing pieces of leather to protect certain parts of the rigging. All the leather has to be cut to fit, which at times is challenging because some of the pieces are fairly intricate. Maggie, the ship’s incumbent purser and goddess of all things office, has written a nice technical but easy to understand description of exactly what it is I am working on here. That’s also where I lifted the pictures from.

Last Tuesday, February 19th, marked exactly one year since I stepped of the plane in the Dominica jungle and boarded the Picton Castle. It’s hard to believe it’s already been a full year since I left to become a sailor. And after this year I can look back and see all the skills, friends and relationships I have developed, all in the process of becoming a proper sailor – a process in which I am still very much at the beginning.

I really feel unfairly fortunate in life. I don’t know how else to describe it. I am in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, working at a craft that I am deeply passionate about in sailing, with little hiccups of writing work, about which my passion is of equal depth. On top of this, I have this month received packages, letters, and phone calls from some of the best friends a person could have; friends who are amazing, who reaffirm my belief in God’s existence. There is no justice.

Last night we had a little party in the Dory Shop, sitting around the wood stove, drinking wine, laughing, listening to music, and just being generally happy. My friend, Finn, put it best:
“We’re a bunch of sailors in this old wooden dory shop that hangs out over the ocean, crowded around a fire barrel, listening to gypsy punk, dancing around—man, we’re gypsies!”
It was one of those moments I get every now and again where I realize I am living out poetry:

Sea Fever

I 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).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

That’s probably my favorite sea-faring poem, by the way. Also, the gypsy punk I mentioned is a reference to my new favorite band, Gogol Bordello, and gypsy punk is the only way to describe it. It's life changing. Check them out, and thank you Chad for turning me on to them. Gogol Bordello. Look them up on YouTube.
Anyhow, enough gushing. Life is good in Lunenburg. Loving people and living poetry.