Captain Pike's Ship Log II

I came across these lines, I had written using a notebook, and liked them.



It is the last day of August. The sun is burning through the morning fog, giving rise to a beautiful summer day, possibly the last beautiful summer day this year. I look out through the estuary, to see several boats on their mooring, waiting. Right now, they all "tow the line" downstream; the tide is out, and the river is running. Later tonight, these boats will all turn 180°, putting their stearns upstream with the tide.

Sailboats on their moorings,
Pulled out by the tide.

Rigged for storm running,
Their bright telltales pointing,
Is that a gale warning?
The bare poles scream as one.

I smell the swampy grasses, rank on the incoming wind. Soon these grassy bayous will support broken ice, lifted off the going tide. It looks like some kind of desert: crackly and sweet with maple sugar. But now these little cabins will bring an enormous rent -- many people would like to live like this. There is a hammock between two trees here, shaded by their leaves. The hammock is constructed such that small children, swinging, lying in its net, will not fall out, even when swung to a great height. Gleeful, joyous screams are leaking out as if under the direction of enormous pressures, like an old pump which must be primed to lift its hidden product from the cool, stony ground. It reminds me of the saying: one must have money, to make money. An investment of water from a bucket is made, hopefully, producing an endless bounty. Endless, that is, as long as one is willing to man the pump handle.

I remember a public fountain, employing a similar but commercial grade water pump. In the summer, children visiting this park by the ocean, delighted in its icy output. It's quenching ability was remembered for many years by children from far away. That summer they came to Maine. Today, the pump has become a chained up, rusty symbol of distrust. Who would've thought, one day we would sell water from the city for two dollars a bottle?