The day is finally here.
(Any minute now.)
Now! The crane whirs, a cheer goes up.
She's afloat.
Nerves and adrenaline thicken our talk
of last-minute details, of status reports,
of winches, lines, and seaworthiness.
Is there anything we've forgotten? -- anything important?
Will some unlikely brokenness ruin the launch
and delay us again?
The paint on the stern is barely dry,
gold letters shining dully in the sun.
Twenty hours that took. Twenty hours we didn't have,
but Simon worked all night; no one would stop him.
Labors of love.
Liquid honey wood, creased new-smelling canvas,
bright brass fittings and clean ropes:
this is our job and our passion.
We know what the sea does to boats.
We already see the wood gouged, splintered, gray-weathered,
the sails frayed and mildewed;
the end in the beginning.
But now --
The keel goes first,
an inverted shark's-fin slicing the water.
The rest follows fast -- no, too close to the dock! --
(It's fine. Just enjoy the moment, says Ron.)
Will the hull be watertight?
We tested it eight times. We know. But still,
we worry.
Six climb in; the rest of us must stay behind
and watch, not do, for a change.
Now she sails -- or doesn't -- on her own.
Conceived by one, borne by many,
ten thousand hours of hard-working love:
this is our job and our passion.
Lines fly. Sail rings rattle up the mast,
excited grinning faces shout important things,
and then --
then the sail fills and lifts,
and the wind breathes life into our wooden boat
as she leaves us behind on the dock.