out-water on the er’ly the first slip o’r the dawn no time to downtown, Boys no time to downtown, Boys until thy work ‘s done
so man the eye, spy the cape let rigs be jigs and let the soul ‘s be damn’d for might the blessed sea- provide the bounty such we seek for skill and pride, for luck ‘n shuck with silent words and surly looks pray, fill these hooks might we crown ‘t-day no time for downtown, Boys no time for downtown, Boys until soaked ‘nd milked the full on day
toil into that twilight- under bark and bare and shipward slight a reward of’a whiskey might ‘et prepare life in a shot (or two or three to spare) if might please the mistress of the sea with her bounty bless’d one day next no time to downtown, Boys no time to downtown, Boys ’till paid is the toll the toll in full t’ rest.
notes… sometimes things just pop in my head, I love the ocean, and fishing, and the almost romantic version of the history of such just offshore from here, people don’t think of New Jersey that way but we are, as usual this was scribbled into a pizza box of all things as I was driving home tonight, maybe it was the music, I am not sure, but I stopped really worrying about all that long ago, I just post the flow of what is going down this river powered by the universe, for I am just a channel, brought to life for a reason… at least that is the hope, and why not.
the romance of being lost at sea this seems almost un-conceivable these days, but it still happens, a little vessel out there with a lone inhabitant, far from any home or harbor, and aside from the starvation I might admire, or envy such a ride, at least in my mind, drifting, in no general direction, or at least the perception, at the whim of nature completely, as we pretend not to be here on terra firma, but truly adrift, to admire the marine life that might approach, I wonder if I could, or should, start a company that promotes such travel, a shipwreck in style, the capsized life for a boatload of dough, of course sans the starvation and wilson ball (and perhaps the extra facial hair – maybe that is negotiable), there would have to be some ground rules though of course, no internet, nope, no way, no cell phone, GPS phone just for emergencies, some sort of solar power array for lights at night and storage of foodstuffs, no grey poupon, fishing gear yes, I wonder if currents can be planned out upon, like certain times of the year for a near perfect route, now this sounds more like a headache the more I think about it, but to make it safe, maybe that would draw the allure out of it all anyway, the fear, the danger, the chance that you are not found at all, how could you capture that all? hmmm… a desert island might be a better control option, but there is just something mesmerizing to me, to be out to sea, just drifting, no control, hoping for a chat with a dolphin, or the moon laddered toward me across the water at night, of course avoiding the teeth and fury of any storm, just floating along like a kite where the wind may take you pulling that string of yarn… there is peace in that lack of control, if only you can let go…
…but imagine the pageantry, lying on your back, a conjured perfect pillow propping up your noggin, just you, your mind and the night sky, not a soul in sight, stars almost close enough to pluck right out like buttons, you have the time to count and name them all if you wish, concoct your own constellations, draft your own lines between, drifting along in the vast swell like you are your own little galaxy, riding – the subtle waves up and down in inches, the calming sound as each beat gently raps your vessel, and your hand which is dangling just breaking the water surface, nothing to control, nothing around, nothing to worry about, nothing but everything to contemplate, perhaps the sound of deep distant dreaming whales singing a song your subconscious can sing along and also answer, exhale, just a dot on the great wide water of the earth, for me this is truly an intoxicating dream… but aren’t nearly all impossible things… ? … ?
scrimshaw if teeth could tell tales instead of having them pass by from the mouths of babes spawned in the maws of whales food for thought, a pictograph etched enamel, weathered hands captured memory of the sea a voyage through the seven and creatures be words wrapped wisdom around a molar born or an incisor’s whit captured nautical dawns
“This is the tooth of a sperm whale that was caught near the Galapagos islands by the crew of the ship Adam [of London], and made 100 barrels of oil in the year 1817.”(an early scrimshaw inscription)
“lively sketches of whales and whaling-scenes, graven by the fishermen themselves on Sperm Whale-teeth, or ladies’ busks wrought out of the Right Whale-bone, and other skrimshander articles” – Moby Dick by Melville