Gliding on Waves #10: The Crimson Rig

Not white, not red on navy blue,
But crimson canvas, rig at full,
Main and genoa burning through,
Wine-red wings coming straight on true.

Harbor hands halt, cups half-sipped,
Shop doors creak, the moment slips,
Something in crimson tilts their grip,
Morning wind on a snow white ship.

From the dock a shadow detaches,
Needle of speed that skims and snatches,
eFoil stitching wave to wave,
Chasing the yacht that everybody catches.

Let the bay blaze with crimson light,
Let the ocean sing through day and night,
For she who glides above the waves,
Let the music rise, and guide her ways.

I lower the glass, I exhale slow,
Set them down on my lighthouse rails,
Twenty years, maybe more ago,
I told a girl a harbor tale.

“A yacht with crimson sails,” it said,
“Finds the ones who chase the sea,”
A tale to live, not left unread,
For the child who stared back up at me.

Let the bay blaze with crimson light,
Let the ocean sing through day and night,
For she who soars across the foam,
Let the music lift, and lead her home.

That pendant I gave her, small and mild,
She wore it hidden, worn and thin.
An email I sent to Grey that night,
Not by my plan, by sea's design.

Let the bay blaze with crimson light,
Let the ocean sing through day and night,
For she who rides the breaking foam,
The tale concludes, the circle home.

The circle’s closed,
The story’s told,
But those crimson sails?
They’ll find their path across the world.

Fair winds, you two.
The world’s wide open.
Well played, Captain Grin.
Well played.