She loomed up out of the near-dusk,
long-keeler, gaff-ketch, maybe
fifty yards off. Coursing along, the hullwash
whispering on her faded sides.
I roared at the crew in temper,
where did he come from, there on the lee?
what kind of watch are ye keeping?
Everyone shrugged, I sounded unfair.
Ducked my head back inside,
could see nothing on radar.
Hailed him, the solitary man on the wheel.
He turned to look over at us,
tilted the brim of his cap, stared
off ahead again. Behind and inshore
the bullvoice of Roches Point.
The wind was fresh, I had a reef in
but he was carrying full sail, kerosene
running lights in his rigging, flare
of his port light a flame on the worn mainsail.
I took him for English, out of Dorset or Cornwall.
He flew no flag but everything there before us
spoke of an earned authority,
someone who’d put in the years. For maybe an hour
he held station there beside us and
never again cast a glance in our direction.
As full dark came on we shook out the reef
and pulled ahead – light displacement, fin-keel,
the boat barely two years old. I wanted more
from this meeting than I could grasp, had sand
in my brain inside, some mind’s infection.
We were bound for Kinsale but off the Sovereigns
something came over me, a sudden desire
to be out of the wind. We made in
for Oysterhaven, picked up a mooring
and settled for the night. Over the south ridge
with its deep woods a sky of stars stood up.
I stood there smoking while down below
there was laughter, a burr of voices, a rattle of pans.
Somebody’s mobile rang, strident and wrong.
“Where do you think he is now?” Geoff, coming up.
We turned to the scribble of surf
in the harbour mouth, half-expecting a sail
to blank the cottage lights. He must be staying out,
I said, making on for the west. The last red overhead faded,
a land breeze came up, smelling of leafmould.
Geoff rapped the coachroof with a knuckle, looked out
and away, said “Forecast is good, he’ll be okay.”
I don’t suppose, I said, the weather bothers him.
