Look before you leap,

If the tide’s in, the water is deep.

But if the tide is out, there leaves little doubt,

Muddy and mucky, you might not come out.

 

It is always just another day, ringed ‘round in the coming and going of the tide: When to fish. When to crab. When to pull in the nets and head for home. The usual build-and-dump of thunderheads litters the sky more fully in the heat, less so in the hemmed-fog, tilting every sail-filled, bobbing island.

 

They call them boats. Or ships. More like Bobs and Shifts—wherein, no anchor has the power to make stable the flimsy flat and billowing blast. And gulls laugh heartily at the efforts.

 

As if that isn’t enough—nature, slapping whips, and brandishing hoops through which the launch must venture–the Moon and Tide, in a love-match immemorial, betimes fight so passionately as to draw up grandly, leaving currents and mudflats where none have been, where no seasoned sailor dare chance drift.

Can you read the wind? The stars? The clouds seven hours ahead?

The tide? The heat? Sea Monsters and their dread?

How far from shore is the illusive shimmer of fish?

How far from shore can they lure you if they wish?

Are you the catcher—or have you been caught—with a bit of bait and your crew, now lost?