Our family has lived in Old Harbor, Nova Scotia, for generations. My father is a cobbler, but many of my ancestors worked as fishermen on the Grand Banks or as whalers. My older brother always talked about going to sea himself. When he graduated from high school, he went down to Halifax and got his SIU ticket. After he left home and sailed away on a cargo ship, a post card would arrive every now and then from ports all over the world. I determined to find a spot on a freighter of my own when I was old enough, and follow in his footsteps.

I would go walking on the shore, along the green line of wrack at the edge of the surf, with salt spume blowing off the water and over my shoes. Looking out past the dark emerald rollers breaking with a roar, I'd imagine my ship disappearing over the horizon on the way to West Africa. I always pictured myself on the deck of a massive iron ship with wind in my hair and the flag of some Central American country cracking like gunshots on the mast reaching into the blue sky above me.

"I'm not asking you to take over my business," my father would say to me. "You don't need to be a shoemaker. But go to college. You're a bright kid. Learn something about the world from books and professors, not from the crew of a rusty scow on its way down to Guyana."

Instead of listening to him, I'd pull out my brother's postcards and study the exotic pictures on them, and their strange stamps from foreign lands.

I attended high school in Black Hill. Old Harbor was too small to support one. My final year, I met a girl named Abbey. This was my first romance and I felt more than a little crazy most of the time.

"Your dad is right, Frank," Abbey would say. "With your grades and test scores, and the hockey, you can go to any school you want to. If we choose the same one, we can stay together next year."

Up until then, I had never had a second thought about my future, never a doubt. I knew what I was going to do. Now, I agonized. Abbey and I had gone farther with each other than with anybody else before. The time we spent together, a closeness more intense than we were equipped to handle, created a bond between us that kept Abbey on my mind every waking minute.

"How could she even like me?" I would ask my father.

"Good question."

"No, I mean it, Dad. I don't know who she thinks I am, but if she ever wises up, she'll drop me like a hot rock."

In spite of my fears, however, she didn't wise up.

"What about college?" she would say instead. "I'm sending in my applications. What about you?"

It reached the point where I couldn't put off a decision any longer.

I might have chosen college if I wasn't living so close to the sea, if I didn't walk so often down a sand path through the beach grasses and saltbush to the shore, if the sound of the surf wasn't in my ears every night when I lay in bed. I might have felt differently then, but the magic of that water, the sheer size of the ocean, spreading wide to the horizon, north, east, and south, deep and restless, infected me. Its color changed, from blue to green to gray to black sparkling with moonlight and phosphorescence. I couldn't let it go.

We kept a small boat in the bay and I'd take it out when I wanted to think. Sitting out in the chop, lying on the oars, with the water clopping the wood of the hull, the ocean's surface alive with sunlight in points and lines on the sharp edges of wind-kicked riffles, I would fix my eyes on the horizon. The boat bobbed under me and then, when the wind passed, it would settle to rest on the swells that passed underneath it.

I finally decided that if I went to college with Abbey, I might begin to resent her for preventing me from following my lifelong dream. On the other hand, after traveling the world, I could always come back to her. If she didn't wait for me, it would prove she didn't love me enough anyway. A thought away from that, though I didn't admit it to myself, was that there would be exotic women in every port. The reasoning of a kid. One of the moments in life when a choice matters and will echo down the years.

Our romance took on a different feel after that, with Abbey applying to her schools and me obtaining a passport and applying to the seaman's union. I had chosen my dream over Abbey and she looked at me in a different way after that. I was tearing us apart. Not some external force. Me.

We said everything that there was to say several times over and then we didn't talk about anything that mattered anymore. We spent the time together. She wept. So did I, a time or two. We didn't talk about why. I had doubts. They grew. I didn't talk to my dad about them.

Abbey lived in Little Lawton and I'd drive my dad's car over there and we'd walk along the cliffs above the water, or make our way down a split in the cliff cut by a creek, and follow the shore, holding hands, talking about life. Mostly, I think, we were just waiting for that final moment.

Just at the end of the school year, my brother Charley came home. He had had his hair cut in Halifax and bought a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt and he was tanned and bigger than I remembered and looked healthy and happy.

He told us tales full of adventure and met Abbey and later she told me that she could see why I had chosen the life of a sailor over her. I wanted to say that it wasn't so, but of course, it was.

Charley was surprised when he heard about my plans.

"Don't do it, Frank," he said. "I like telling tales but the truth is, I'm not going back to sea. I'm going to go to school like I should have in the first place, and like I thought you were now."

I just stared at him.

"It's a tedious life," he said. "You don't learn much. You don't make many friends. The crews are small. With a girl like Abbey and your life ahead of you, you'd be a fool to go to sea."

I told him that I didn't believe him. He shook his head and shrugged and helped my dad in the shop, and made school arrangements in Quebec. My world turned upsidedown. I realized that, all of a sudden, I wanted to run back to Abbey and tell her the whole thing had been a mistake, but the idea seemed shaming.

I heard nothing about my union application. When I called the SIU, the man I spoke to told me that no application had been filed. When I hung up, I saw Charley watching me.

"I know a couple of the fellows in the Halifax office," he said. "They were the ones who helped me find a boat in the first place. When I told them about you, they were happy to help me out by losing your papers. I've done you a great favor, Frank, believe me."

"What am I going to tell Abbey?" I said. "I chose the sea over her. Now I go back and tell her you screwed it up for me? It's too late for me to go off to college with her anyway."

"Tell her the truth," Charley said.

I drove over to Little Lawton in complete turmoil. I pictured Abbey slapping me in the face. I felt a relief beyond speaking, overlaid with confusion and anxiety that kept me from forming a single cogent thought. I was desperate.

"Abbey," I said. "I was crazy. I was so wrong. I guess you can't forgive me, but I love you and I don't want to leave you."

She took a minute and I saw several expressions cross her face.

"What changed your mind?" she said.

I wanted to tell her that my love overcame all, that I had known all along that I was doing the wrong thing. I wanted to lie through my teeth.

"Charley changed my mind," I said.

She took another minute. She nodded.

"Good," she said.

I hold on tight to my Daddy's hand, because there are people moving all around us. I am too small to see where we're going, and I'm frightened by all the legs rushing past. I grab onto Daddy with my other hand, too. He looks down and smiles, then puts his big hands under my arms and swings me up, easily, onto his shoulders. For a moment, it feels like I've left my tummy behind and I laugh, giddy and excited. Daddy holds my legs tight so I won't fall. I can smell his hair, clean and salty from the beach where we spent the afternoon.

I can see everything from up here. It's getting dark, and the lights of the rides and stalls are flashing a hundred different colours; brilliant rainbows against the night sky. The rides themselves are huge, spinning monsters filled with screaming people, splashing light and colour everywhere as they thunder about, behind tubular fencing. I feel Daddy let go of one of my legs and watch as he puts his arm around Mommy's waist, pulling her close to us as we walk along. He says something to her, and she smiles, leans closer, and kisses Daddy on the lips. Daddy suddenly drops to one knee and Mommy kisses me, too. Her cheeks are a lovely pink colour.

We move along, heading for the stalls. There are the sweetest smells in the air, warm and delicious. Finally, we stop in front of a counter where a man in a red and white striped apron stands. He's wearing a big, funny white hat that's sticking up way above his head. Behind him, stacked on long metal poles, are donuts. There are too many for me to count - row upon row, donut upon donut. This is where the sweet smell is coming from. Mommy talks to the man and hands over some money, and he gives her a big white bag that's spotted with grease. She holds it open; the man takes a big container and sprinkles lots of sugar inside. Then she holds the bag up for me to carry.

It's warm, and Daddy tells me to make sure I don't get sugar in his hair, but he's laughing as he says it. We reach an empty bench and he puts me down, then we all sit – with me in the middle. Mommy says I can have first pick. I open the bag, steam rises out, and the sweet smell is suddenly stronger than ever. I reach in and take out a donut, loving the sugary, sticky heat of it on my fingers. Mommy takes one next, then Daddy. They hold hands around me.

We all take a big bite, and to me it tastes like everything that's been good about the day. Music drifts past on the breeze.

I look up at Mommy and Daddy, but they are looking at each other, sugar on their smiles and sparkling colours on their faces.

"High tide, Captain Jackson," said the First Mate. "Southerly wind, still at twelve knots. The moon will be setting in a few hours; the sun won't rise for six more."

"Thank you, Mister Phillips; it's time to run the inlet, then," replied the Captain. "General Washington needs his gunpowder, and we could use some provisions ourselves. Brandy, perhaps?"

"Aye, Captain!" the First Mate grinned.

"Set full sails, then, Mister Phillips. Jibs and staysails, too. We'll want Mary Martha to be flying tonight. And quietly, if you please; no need to announce ourselves. Make your course due north."

"Aye, Captain."

The Mary Martha was originally a British merchant brigantine, then captured by the Continental Navy and converted for blockade running. She was but lightly armed, the better to lighten her and increase her speed. The British blockade of the Chesapeake Bay made reprovisioning the Continental Army a challenging task, and while food was important, powder and ammunition were even more so.

If the crew was nervous about sailing at flank speed, at night, and close to the barrier islands and shoals off the Delaware shore, they didn't show it. They trusted the Captain, and worked swiftly and quietly, raising every sail she carried.

As the Mary Martha gained speed, Captain Jackson stood near the helmsman, alternately watching the compass and scanning to port. Success now depended on compatriots ashore. Mary Martha could most likely outrun the British if they found her, but that wouldn't help General Washington. Jackson had to get their cargo ashore.

The temperature was falling; fog was beginning to form in wispy banks, low to the sea.

The ship groaned as its speed built further, still sailing due north. Doubled lookouts stood at the bow, watching for the British; Captain Jackson still scanned the shore.

"There!" called the mate, and indeed, eight miles away, a pinpoint of light was visible--the signal fire that marked the inlet into Rehoboth Bay. Jackson was confident, as most captains are: The difficulty of the task would aid its success; the British would never expect the Continentals--even the local ones--to attempt to run the Indian River inlet under full sail, at night. Most local navigators wouldn't attempt that feat during the day.

"Steady as she goes, helmsman. Wait for my order," said Jackson. Their success still depended upon men ashore: A second signal fire was needed by the Mary Martha. Meanwhile the first beacon was alight for all to see, including the British, but that couldn't be helped.

Jackson waited, his eyes fixed on the first beacon, while the Mary Martha paralleled the shore.

"There, sir!" called the mate, and a second light appeared, very near the first.

"Converging or diverging?" asked Jackson.

The mate waited to be sure. "Converging, sir!"

"Agreed," said Jackson. The lights appeared to be moving closer together.

The second light was on a tower, and was six miles farther away--clear across Rehoboth bay. All Jackson had to do now was wait, until....

"They're in line, Captain!"

"Helm, hard aport," Jackson said calmly.

Mary Martha heeled hard, her rigging groaning under the load.

"Get the sails trimmed, Mister Phillips! Helm, keep the lights in line. Mark your course."

"Aye, sir. Course is two-six-eight."

"Very well."

The Mary Martha was sailing at flank speed directly toward a tiny opening in a barrier island.

Then the bonfires disappeared as a shallow fog bank drifted across the path of the brigantine.

"Captain!" the helmsman shouted.

"Steady as she goes, son. Steer your course; when we clear the fog, make corrections as you see fit."

"Aye sir," said the helmsman, sounding less confident than he'd hoped.

Mary Martha emerged from the fog, and the signals reappeared.

"Good job, seaman," said Jackson. "Remember, the brighter light is on the north side of the inlet; the dimmer one is on the shore behind. As we draw nearer, let the lights diverge; the farther one should inform your course."

"Aye, sir."

"Sail ho!" the cry came from a lookout, "three points off the starboard bow!"

"There! A British frigate!" said Phillips.

Jackson spotted the moonlit sail, but said nothing.

"Orders, Captain?"

"None, Mister Phillips. Helm, steady as she goes." Jackson watched the sail a bit longer.

"Mister Phillips, he's north of us; the wind is southerly, making him beat to windward, see? He can't go much closer ashore; he'll have to tack astern of us. What is his closest crossing range, do you reckon?"

Phillips looked at the sail and considered. "Two thousand yards, sir."

"Do you think he can hit us with a rear quartering broadside at two thousand yards, on a first and only attempt?"

"I reckon we'll see soon enough, Captain Jackson."

"Right you are, lad."

The shore drew closer, as did the British ship. The sound of the surf breaking on the beach grew louder; seagulls could be heard circling the breakers. As it neared shore, the Mary Martha seemed to be moving at breakneck speed. The inlet, barely visible in the moonlight, still seemed impossibly narrow.

"Be ready to drop sails, Mister Phillips."

"Aye, sir."

The Mary Martha reached the inlet just as a flash appeared on the gun deck of the frigate. As the brigantine slipped through the channel, the broadside hit harmlessly on the beach behind and to starboard.

The crew's cheers broke the tension.

"Mister Phillips?"

"Aye sir?"

"Drop all but the top gallants. My compliments to the crew. There'll be a bonus tonight."

"Aye sir. General Washington will have his powder, then?"

"It would appear so, Mister Phillips."

A rascal's calm and charm
She sleeps entrenched, except when she stretches
Infinite idling is implicit bliss
Oh joy of comfort, oh cotton cocoon
Just brush up fur, fuzz unfurls
Sly, wry
Prrrrrrr

"Last tap!" a barman calls, and attracts an armada.
Here, the resplendent reverend's decree ne'er
inhibits spirit-imbibing sins.
Tomorrow's vows swoon on wormwood floors.
Lustful drunks gulp mugfuls; Truth succumbs.
Styx's hymns fly wryly by.
Mmmmm mm mm mmmm...