I promised myself that I would update this before I leave. Tomorrow. At an ungodly hour. And then it is off for packing and sorting and lectures and traveling, then paddling and soreness and hunger and not fitting in to the group, as per usual. Here's to hoping that all my fears are easily overcome, and that a whale does not decide to rise to the surface with my boat in the way.
"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).
(spoon carver, bread baker) gypsy, nomad, wandering errant walker.
