scribble writing on a lazy winter afternoon

 

harborside on a lazy winter afternoon. laughing out loud reading my friend's monthly column while the satellite muzak spins selections from my younger years. tracy chapman drives her fast car while simply red's holdin' back the years. an acoustic spin doctors track and a slow edie brickell song awakens me. serenading me while savoring fresh seafood tacos and sipping on a fresh lime margarita. herradura silver. on the rocks. with salt. the harbor is alive with energy. the masts of sleeping vessels sway gently to and fro. back and forth. forth and back. while working fishing boats find their way home. returning from a night and a day at sea. names like: the sea breeze and the gypsy king and the trade wind sail by and nestle into their slips. below, the crabbers are stacking their baskets and nets. the wooden planks and chains squeak and jangle beneath the thud of their rubber boots. the lines carved in their leather faces raise and crease at the corners of their eyes. and the docks hum with their stories and laughter. reminding me of mysteries solved aboard the busted flush. the fictional boat won in a poker game by the story's hero, travis mcgee, in the old john d. macdonald series i adore so much. stand-up paddle boarders and sea kayakers take in a pelican's eye view, skimming above the surface in the company of otters and seals. pleasure crafts trawling by with children atop the bows, bating their hooks with neon-colored salmon eggs and roe. while dads talk shop and fish tales of the ones that got away, at the wheel. even speedo johnny is out cruising around on his stand-up paddle board. speedo johnny not because he's fast. speedo johnny because he wears a speedo, in public, on a regular basis. on the far side of the harbor, young skateboarders catch air and young dogs catch frisbees, while old dogs catch naps on an expanse of freshly cut grass. young sailors practice avoiding the swinging boom, starboard to port, port to starboard...tacking against the gentle wind...bobbing across the wake of passing yachts. old sea dogs scrub decks and blanket jibs in effortlessly elegant choreographed dance steps while weekend warriors timidly find their sea legs. the sound of a cork popping. a chrome shaker shaking. ice tinkling. and a waitress smiling. reminds me of the time. in the distance, my mom's beloved lighthouse stoically stands gaurding the harbor entrance. and the soon-setting sun has shifted to my side of the deck. shapes the sun makes never cease to amaze me. the lower hemisphere: now the rounded supple hips of a voluptuous woman; the top hemisphere: now morphed into a towering steeple. a thin line of vapor, invisible to the naked eye, distinctly separating the tip, hovering above the temple. a giant topaz kiss melting in a watermelon sky, disappears, dripping into a sea of liquid amber. its radiance kisses my eyelids. caresses my cheeks. warms my shoulders. and Life is good.

 

~ janean christine mariani