Notes to Myself from the Bottom of the World,
They have been fishing since sunrise, tethered to a weathered grey post faintly tipped with white. It is supposed to show the deep water channel. The tide is flowing out, and their old launch bumps her keel on the mud bottom. They hasten to loosen the mooring rope, push off into the tugging current which hurries them away from familiar landmarks. Soon the launch sweeps around a bend, still drifting. Somehow they have to kick over the motor, get some steerage, figure out where the hell they are going. Now, a little later, my parents have passed the mouth of the estuary, bobbing in a tiny silhouette above the long, cold ocean swells. It is time to wonder about my own journey.