She’s well, pulled out,
Dry docked, to herself.

Middle of the season,
I’m at home, only myself.

Sea skies I’ll miss with her,
She towed my heart into this.
As well as this crew, seven men,
Three older, four too young for this.

Still in one piece, at sea 43 years,
I grew up with twenty, just looking at it.

My Mother and Dad sent me over,
From a place torn, to a place not like it.

I’ve learned to balance my life,
Living it mostly at sea, than land.
It took more respect, than a plea,
God saved us at times with His hands.

The chores were life’s duty there,
Pride of the old vessel, as our friend.

Her given name, Claret, a fishing trawler,
Strong oak, sturdy beams, her life now still.

Counting the loves in my life,
And only for those that do.
She gave me the life, to love the sea,
As if it were to say, “I do.”

The crew, my family, also gave her new birth,
With her name, to a child born.

Also for their livelihood they understood,
With the spirit, for it is born.

As well as we did, as with all the years,
She still brought us home safe, each time.
I should look at it for all the years now,
As I come closer, but not for the end of my life.

Only the arthritis now dampens my spirit,
As well as physical, the bending, but not broken.

If only a sea doctor could put me back out there,
But for the better judgment, he said, “I have spoken.”

The crews I’ve had, as diverse as the species of fish,
Grew straining at times, depressing, though grateful,
For the more, satisfying, a sailor’s life for me,
Nets full of fish, a bounty, so tasteful.

This crew as well will leave, but for the sea again,
Another captain, another boat, and other hands.

I’ll not die at sea, as the wish for many captains,
I’ll just see Claret, only to hold her helm with my hands.

©2007, Ron Globe