Coming Home

“Stow the gangplank,” she shouted, the rest of the crew in harmony as we loosened the ropes and waved farewell to the harbor. Everywhere, exited movement drew our eyes toward the sea ahead and the jumble of ropes above.

“Hoist the peak! Ready mainsail!” Hand-over-hand, we pulled in unison, feeling the worn ropes resist our force to anxiously tame the flapping canvas. A turn of the captain’s wheel filled it with a promising tail wind. Forward we sailed, in the tradition of our past, the journey’s irony lost on no one.

Huddled-together travelers chatted up tattooed, barefoot men as a four-legged mascot navigated between newly-minted sea legs, our collective calm rising with each lapping wave. The sails lifted the hull as it skated along the surface. From shore, we had admired the vast expanse of blue-green,but its majesty now seemed certain and everlasting.  A ship (they say) is a maiden, a lady, but the Denis Sullivan is an Irish rogue making himself a new name that twists history due North with the wishes of a thousand builders.

The Denis Sullivan by E.D. Meyer. Photos by James Meyer