Itchy

The feeling is impulse and the skin is red
I hope it's not all false and all in my head
But I feel it and see it perhaps I could be it
A satisfaction scratched, an egg about to hatch

Stillness

I left and came back today, yesterday, tomorrow
I don't know how long I was gone, maybe ages
A climpse of eternity, a forgotful thought
A timeless space left me older yet unchanged, maybe wiser
All I know is that the same music was playing, yet the sound had changed
I was still, quiet and alone but not lonely
I was everything and nothing
I was... I am... I will be... not

El Huachinango rides again

"Were you the guys stuck in the mud on the bay?" For all of those who doubt my wife and mine's sailing ability... F U ( F U = N O). You know who you are.  Enough said about that.
Yesterday Jen and I took El Huachinango out for a spin and she performed beautifully, especially in 20 knot winds with an unreefed mainsail. The rail didn't even get wet on a stiff close haul with a 6 to 7ft SW swell coming through the harbor entrance. What a great boat!

Oh... I'm sorry. Let me translate the sailor speak for all you landlubbers. Me and my Beeotch went for a ride in our yacht, El Huachinango. We cruised up to North side from South side and encountered some bitch-ass waves and some punk-ass wind. That's when El Huachinango said, "Who you callin' a punk?" and then El Huachinango leaned into that those punk-ass waves and began to throw down like Ali. Then the punk-ass wind started to mad dog El Huachi. Well El Huachi would have none of that and ... BAM! El Huachi laid him out! Me and my woman didn't even get our hands dirty. Peace out!

She's Back in the Water!

Me feeling high after applying the hull paint.

Happy boat...just add water!

She's back in the water!

First mate, Jen. She's first mate on the boat and Captain at home.

After 2 weeks of sanding, painting and cleaning our 1967 Yankee Dolphin 24 hull #80 is ready to sail. Stay tuned!

Bugs

Cellulose...gray, galvanized and worn
Hides the insects from which they were born
Wind, rain, cold and heat seek to do the crushing of feet
They mob and pile and drown for awhile
To be filled with life and ooze with nothing to choose

Dirt

Roots in earth, wormy things and birth
We have a short ways to go
The blow as we grow, the cry of good-bye
We have a short ways to fall
Through the branchy things, the grabby things
The things that make us crawl

The gift of a Father

The gift of a son is less than the gift  of a father
For the son knows not what he is
The son will become heartbreak when he sees the ways of his father... eventually
Good or bad... he will not follow
The gift of the father lays upon knowing this
Expect nothing and give every respect
Know the son will follow his path to joy... let him break your heart to find it.