Oh Ishmael!

I was close to knocking off hats of passerby in the street- yet nowadays baseball caps don't fly off as easily as the bowlers of Ishmael's time. Tensions rose, crew departed and arrived, provisions were carted aboard, chairs lashed to tables, radios charged.

It is time to go to sea.

I took a final run on the (at long winter last) warm Florida pavement, past the dirty scattered broken bottle lots and sand-hued Italianate condo complexes, through hedge obscured neighborhoods and along empty storefronts begging for repair, for love, for a chance to show that West Palm could be so much more than it is and should be.
I am ready to leave this state.

It is time to go to sea.

Swordfish and steak on our spattering of plates as the sun set over the marina full of hull after hull of floating mansions. Giddiness sets in as docklines unwind and drop, haul them aboard and here we go! Through the waterway and rows of sailboats reflecting the amber clouds on skyward masts. For a moment I anticipate the hoisting of the sails, the heeling of the sleek white hull, the joy of shutting off the engines and gliding through the Gulf Stream. Then my eyes refocus on the jacuzzi and radar dome, the burbling whitewater wake that this motorboat leaves behind.
And I am OK with that because in this moment all that matters is the open water be it by engines, sails, or paddles.

It is time to go to sea.

As I write, the windows of my cabin are filled with sea foam and sparkling lights of nearby fishermen on the lowered horizon. The chop is still low, the rumbling of the engines soothing, the motion in my cocoon ideal for a pre-watch snooze. Soon I will be on the bridge, red lights glowing, the radar my occupation, the paper chart my enjoyment.

I am content.

I am at sea.