The Other Half
Posted: Wed Feb 17, 2010 2:28 pm
It's about a voyage north form the Clyde - ultimately to Seil.
The Other Half
Forget farming, forget horses – just forget.
We’re off to sail the waters of the Clyde.
The usual suspects all assembled.
The dinghy piled high – the water very near.
And is there gin aboard?
Aye and whisky too, partnered with the green.
The “makings” as we say.
Scramble aboard, stow supplies.
“That sailcover in the port locker please”.
Order from chaos in minutes flat.
The seacock’s open, the engine splutters.
Cast off from chain and troubles.
A belated glace to stern – it’s clear,
And so to sea.
First taste of salt comes with the hardening of the sheets.
The crash of ill-stowed cargo down below.
“A bit fresh but nothing to us men”.
Hills of moving green defend the Southern Firth today.
We’re two hours out,
But Lady Isle still keeps her quarter,
with paltry course made good .
As cold assaults the inner man,
And brain conflicts with inner ear,
Crinan triumphs over Cape.
The sheets are freed and all transformed.
As though removed to somewhere in the Trades,
We surge and swoop,
past Arran’s craggy shore.
And now we talk.
Of voyages before, of harbour walls.
A much embroidered history.
Yet competition’s left ashore.
No challenges but wind and sea and boat.
Reprieved from chores and daily roles,
Reduced to what we really are.
The anchor’s barely found the bottom,
As warmth explodes below from glasses raised.
And soon “the other half” is drained.
While corned beef hash awaits,
to fill the gaping void within.
This day, these shipmates hide the truth,
We are already playing in the other half.
The Other Half
Forget farming, forget horses – just forget.
We’re off to sail the waters of the Clyde.
The usual suspects all assembled.
The dinghy piled high – the water very near.
And is there gin aboard?
Aye and whisky too, partnered with the green.
The “makings” as we say.
Scramble aboard, stow supplies.
“That sailcover in the port locker please”.
Order from chaos in minutes flat.
The seacock’s open, the engine splutters.
Cast off from chain and troubles.
A belated glace to stern – it’s clear,
And so to sea.
First taste of salt comes with the hardening of the sheets.
The crash of ill-stowed cargo down below.
“A bit fresh but nothing to us men”.
Hills of moving green defend the Southern Firth today.
We’re two hours out,
But Lady Isle still keeps her quarter,
with paltry course made good .
As cold assaults the inner man,
And brain conflicts with inner ear,
Crinan triumphs over Cape.
The sheets are freed and all transformed.
As though removed to somewhere in the Trades,
We surge and swoop,
past Arran’s craggy shore.
And now we talk.
Of voyages before, of harbour walls.
A much embroidered history.
Yet competition’s left ashore.
No challenges but wind and sea and boat.
Reprieved from chores and daily roles,
Reduced to what we really are.
The anchor’s barely found the bottom,
As warmth explodes below from glasses raised.
And soon “the other half” is drained.
While corned beef hash awaits,
to fill the gaping void within.
This day, these shipmates hide the truth,
We are already playing in the other half.
