home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
Software Vault: The Gold Collection
/
Software Vault - The Gold Collection (American Databankers) (1993).ISO
/
cdr11
/
s_m0693.zip
/
S&M-00
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1993-05-30
|
7KB
|
123 lines
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░A New England Sailor's Winter Lament░░░░by Steve Myrick
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
It happened the first time well into winter, one of
those New England days when the morning sunlight bounces off
the ice in a frenzied dance, yet still reflects some
unrefined promise of spring. Since that day it has marched
with maddening impulse back through the calendar. It has no
regard for me, no sympathy or remorse for its irregular
torment.
I am not the first to realize that we are both
blessed and cursed to live in this place, where the winters
can seem so harsh, and the summers so short. But I have
mostly failed to learn how to adapt to winter's allure. It
is true that winter's icy edges make the summer that much
sweeter. But that seems inadequate compensation. It is
like saying you feel great, once you stop banging your head
against the wall. Still, the thought of living elsewhere
makes me cringe.
The first time was easy. With a minimum of
distress, relative warmth arrived. The tenuous climb of the
thermometer, and the noticeable lengthening of light
justified the spring rituals of sanding and scraping. The
smell of their ceremonial oils and paints eased the chill
from the air. The sound of boatyard chatter, punctuated by
power sanders, quickened the pulse.
Soon we were greeting each weekend with a laugh and
a tack through the freshening breeze.
It was not given another thought, not even yet
recognized as a phenomenon. But the next time, it was not
yet late winter, and it was not so easy to dismiss. It came
on one of those New England days when there is no light, and
precious little assurance that we are not on the brink of a
surprise ice age.
The mind invents a thousand phony defenses, and
each one is doomed to failure from the start. You can not
lie to yourself about these things. Watching golf on TV
from some sunny clime is like a temporary narcotic. You
know in your heart that soon those images will vanish and
you will step back into a very real, very frozen world.
The next year it came earlier, and earlier still
the next, until the year it arrived with the Christmas
season, bringing all of its bothersome urgency to intrude on
the holiday cheer. Christmas at Mystic Seaport and a good
sailing book from Santa tempered the strain.
It qualified as a sort of fuzzy discomfort by then,
an annoying trespasser. The sensation defined itself with
each passing year, its edges growing sharper, its focus
clearer. It is only a thought really, nothing more than a
maddening biological spark. Its mystery is in its surprise.
Each winter season, it elbows through frosty synapses,
bursting hotly into consciousness without so much as a
cursory introduction. It sets up residency in the crevices
of my mind until it is cured.
"These winters build character," our grandfathers
always said. Through an annual test of fidelity, we are
hardened by the season. Most of us emerge in spring with
our devotion unshaken. But it does not get easier as we go
along.
The year it came before the first snow was tough.
By then it was a distinct phenomenon. I drove by the harbor
and saw a boat sailing out toward the bay. That made it
tougher. It was one of those fall days when you hear people
saying "It's warmer now than some of those days in June."
In my youthful exuberance, I was always perplexed
when people complained about winter. There never seemed a
dark or dreary day then, only fast weeks filled with
carnivals and ski trips and high school basketball. I
still find plenty to do in winter, but I realize now that
those who groused about the snow and ice had lived through
many more seasons than me.
Last year it jumped from an irksome phenomenon to a
genuine affliction. It crossed a seemingly impossible
threshold, and I do not know quite how to handle it. It
caught me unaware, as always. It was a sunny day. Calling it
summer would barely stretch the truth. I was lazing away an
afternoon aboard, perfectly comfortable, when it hit me with
all the subtlety of a keel grinding up on a rock ledge.
Suddenly my head was filled with thoughts of that first
glorious sail of the season. We were not even out of the
water yet, would not be for weeks, yet I was thinking about
a spring launch date, and a split second later, dreading the
long wait.
With those thoughts biting into the senses, winter
can be a cruel season, and this winter has been the most
cruel of all. Each week brought a new storm, with news of
some demented meteorological record broken. The television
weather forecasters grin with little boy glee as the cloud
maps document another approaching storm.
The first cruise of the season has become a
tradition in our family, an overnight shakedown voyage to
Quisset Harbor. Adrenaline racing, grins welded onto our
faces, we tighten and tune as we go. There will be longer
sails, and more exotic ports to explore, but there will not
be a rush like this again. It is at once a victory over
the long winter, and a lunge into the summer ahead. And
that day will arrive again. It will.
But now the affliction overlaps its cure, and since
it jumped into this new dimension, there has been no peace
in my thoughts. Every triangle is a sail, every circle a
wheel. Every clod of dirt a sandy shoal, every splash of
water an ocean.
I am a young man, but I am not immortal, and my
summers are not infinite. What was once an occasional
troubling thought has evolved into a ponderous question.
The mind's impulse is to flee these frightful puzzles, to
defend the soul from unknown horrors which might lurk in the
answers. That is what I will do, in summer at least. In
winter I may sail these treacherous waters, and try to chart
the hazards. But I will not spend my summers searching for
answers I might not like to know. I will take solace in
simple pleasures. A building southwest breeze. The steady
insistence of a weather helm. Oysters at sunset in a quiet
harbor. An artful turn of phrase in an old book. And the
gentle waves rocking me to sleep in my berth.
-end-
Copyright (c) 1993 Steve Myrick
Steve Myrick is a Freelance Writer living in Boston, MA. Contact
him through Pen and Brush BBS at (703) 644-6730 (modem)