Oh, That Flying Fickle Finger of Fate!

Passing several miles south of the Frying Pan Shoals Tower, roughly 34 miles off Bald Head Island, around midnight, the July air hot and thick--thick like I remember from my childhood in Florida--a light breeze out of the southeast, we were making around 5 or 6 knots.

The call came from a fellow crew member when I raced on a Pearson 33 out of Charleston. Hamp told me a friend of his from his workplace built a 28' trimaran and was taking his family on a trip up the coast to Beaufort, NC. (Pronounced Bo-firt, by the way. Bew-fird is in SC.)

The rub, he didn't have time to get his boat back to Charleston. So, Hamp asked, was I interested in sailing the boat back down the coast. Absolutely. 

I was on the helm, Hamp below fixing a sandwich. Seas were 1-2 feet, sometimes ship lights were seen at some distance. We were on a close reach, pressure on the wheel light.

Wap! Something struck the headsail. 

Wap! Something struck the mailsail. Hamp stuck his head up from below.

Thump! Something hit me on the left side of my chest. What the hell!

Flying fish! 

Hamp ducked back down the companionway. I scrunched down behind the wheel.

More strikes on the sails. Another one soared by me.

I hear one thrash around on the cabin top before getting itself overboard.

Wap! Another and another. Wap! Wap! Wap!

How many strikes, I don't know for sure. How long the barrage, I don't know that either.

What I do know is the school passed. 

What I do know is we were a very, very, very small target nearly 3 dozen miles offshore. 

What were the odds? Well, I don't know, but I can say I know how it feels to take a flying fish in the chest. 

Now about that barracuda brought into a small cockpit when fishing offshore on another boat--well, it was a special moment, too.

Kristen Barrow (F)

Kristen Barrow pulled her chair close to her husband’s hospital bed. She set her brown paper bag on her lap.

“It’s Kris, Ben. Time to have us some lunch. I see, looks like, you have meatloaf and a baked potato and some carrots. I think that’s apple spice cake. Maybe.”

Ben, knees bent to his chest, thin arms wrapped around his legs, stared at the ceiling.

“I’m having tuna fish. I know, I know, always tuna fish. And some cottage cheese. No, no yogurt today.”

Kristen set her sandwich on a napkin on her lap.

“I guess that coffee is for me. Yes, I see the two creams. The girls here are so nice. Did I tell you Bill called?”

A low groan came from Ben, and he seemed to be gulping air, one, two, three gulps and then his mouth closed.

“Yes, Bill called. Benny is going to Carolina. Of course, he knows you will be pleased. Of course, going up to Knoxville was going to be too expensive. Much too much if you ask me.”

Kristen looked out the window. Spring flowers were potted around the central courtyard. One of the workers was watering one of the larger pots.

“Oh those geraniums look really pretty. Remember how we lined the back patio with geraniums that one year?”

Ben leaned away from her, his head and shoulder touching the wall. Again, a low groan.

“I started the tomatoes and cucumbers yesterday. I don’t think I am going to bother with squash this season. Of course, local squash will be in soon enough, so no reason to be concerned with that.

“Susan called. She’s taking the twins to Carowinds for their 12^th birthday. Ed is going to be in Memphis. Some kind of presentation. I don’t know what really. Of course, his work is important.”

Kristen set her sandwich down. She took up the cake and his fork.

“Yes, I was right, right on the mark. Apple spice. Pretty good, if I do say so myself. Pretty good, Ben.”

She too another bite and then set the small dish down.

“I got my lunch at Chick-fil-A yesterday. You know how I love that sandwich. Of course, not with a pickle. You know how I—I don’t want to say the word hate—how I dislike pickles.

“Haven’t heard much from Sandy. Of course, you know how she is. Not a chatterbox. You know she is a reader like you. Rather have a book in front of her rather than another person. But she’s a good person. She really is.

“I think all our children are good people, Ben. Of course, as you know, there were some challenges. But that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

Ben turned his head back to the ceiling and gulped, once, twice.

“Life is going to provide some challenges. Lots of people have challenges."

“I’m not sure I like this cottage cheese. They didn’t have my usual brand. Ben, you would be surprised at how many things are in short supply. Some things have just gone completely missing. I don’t know why we can’t get those little mint cookies we liked to have in the evenings.

“Well, we just make do, don’t we? That’s what we have always done, haven’t we?"

“Oh, the Cordes asked about you the other day. I told them you were doing okay.”

Ben groaned.

“Yes, Ben, I know. That’s what I’ve been saying. We just make do.”

Greer 2023

 

  

I Could Do Worse

I could do worse—you know—than to push

kids on swings

 

in the evening as the sun eases behind

the trees

 

significantly worse

dramatically worse

terribly worse

horribly worse

 

catastrophically worse

 

the smallest hands

finger the chains—trust—drowsy, 

more a rocking than a swinging,

mostly hushed,

nearly, a trance

 

cataclysmically worse

 

the older kids clamor for new heights—toes skyward,

legs pumping—I, grounded, merely push,

they climb, their squeals pitch higher

 

flyovers

two geese

a passenger jet

 

apocalyptically worse

 

higher still, a veil of thinning clouds

a waning crescent moon

Mars ascending

tragically, worse

Lyman 2023

  

A Spring's Accounting

First, the carnage. A record-setting arctic blast Christmas week--3 degrees for a low here in the Lyman Metro--did more damage than I anticipated. The roll call of potted plants killed disheartening.

Two Japanese maples, an Inaba Shidare and an Orangeola, after surviving 2 previous winters. A Rose of Sharon grown from a cutting, after 4 winters. A fig, 4 winters. A Chinese wisteria, 5. Three Juniper procumbens 'Nanas', first winter. A Satsuki azalea, first winter. A Japanese maple I dug out of a niece's yard, 5.

The empty pots, still a sore sight.

After warm temperatures launched an early bloom for the Yoshinos, and almonds, and peaches, and the crabapples, a hard freeze for several mornings the third week in March burned the freshest shoots on my elms, tea olives, and nandina. 

But now in May--azaleas and dogwoods and quince past blooming--the knockouts are covered in flowers, the crape myrtle are showing the first hint of flowers to come, lavenders and butterfly bushes soon to join the party.

Two Super Sweet 100 cherry bushes are growing, the cucumbers--Straight Eights and Braggers--are just emerging from seed. After my nearly total failure with sweet potatoes last year, this season's pact with my youngest neighbors is to try my hand at growing peanuts. The bad news, they need a long hot summer. 

The Gala apples have a moderate crop forming, and the Fugis actually have two tiny apples each, so maybe next year will see their first significant production.

Already thinking about next year and this growing season still not in full swing.

The bluebirds seem to be on course for another hatch. Last week for an afternoon, their condo was under assault from chimney swifts, but then the swifts disappeared. No signs of a new crop of geese or herons or red-shouldered hawks, although I have seen the hawk pair together a few times this past week.

And so by all accounts--despite setbacks--the cycle continues, the hopes that springs eternal.