Monday, September 22, 2008
Aftermath of Ike's Wrath
Sailboats lay where they had been tossed; about the shipyard were tatters of sailing vessels, once their masts stood tall and statuesque defiantly challenging the blue skies and Grey storms clouds. Now these wooden and steel monarchs were no more. On the gravel roadway leading back to the boat sheds, I found a cleat still attached to fiberglass. The cleat was still shiny from patient hands that had polished and mended and toiled upon the legendary sailing vessel under a harsh fall sun.
Fall, the season of the year, which had intentionally been brewing this menacing, thieving, destroying beast. Once many of the shells and hulls, wisps and melancholy maritime ghost remnants had been many magnificent sailing vessels. I reached for the steel cleat with tears falling from hazel eyes, and to my mind appeared memories from the tales my father had recited to my then child’s ears. These ears were now no longer 7 or 8 but a grand total of 48 wise and wonderful years.
Angry, murky seawater's trespassed into realms where sandaled feet once trod unhindered by the menacing water. Remnants of lives were left anywhere they had fallen, a stuffed bright green frog, a child’s toy smiling in it’s own sweet way lay along with the other debris. There were artifacts newly deposited at this site. Curiosities such as shoes once worn by industrious sailors and yachtsmen, shoes called topsiders, one lay here, another of these shoes the topsiders mate lay along with the discarded finger pier, once a pathway to a persons home and life, now just a part of the entire puzzle. Puzzle pieces of many lives, and so many pieces strewn about, carelessly discarded as playthings where a storms wrath had caused nightmares and unexpected dangers and windfalls.
The newsmen turned their gigantic cameras in my direction as I upheld a small wooden oar, my recently discovered treasure, and ran gleefully toward a boat owner. The boat owner gratefully acquiesced his new gift. The much-desired little wooden oar was salvaged from scattered unclaimed possessions, which were strewn about the demolished Marina. Left unrequited and abandoned these possessions in this scene were much like seeing how a child had scattered party favors in their wantonness. All these events happened as we were traveling on foot towards Clear Lake Best Transmissions, the place where my first mate is still employed.
The boat owner’s intentions for this oar were to take a small fiberglass boat and along with his companions he was desirous to retrieve a dingy from a boatwoman’s sailing vessel. I challenged their transgressions of boarding the tiny fiberglass boat minus life jackets as we had plucked many red Mae West’s from the debris and carnage.
The newsmen from channel eleven staged their gear, cameras and equipment inside the Clear Lake Best Transmissions building away from the sudden ravenous thunderstorms. Glass had been scattered as if the glass were droplets of morning dew upon a spider’s lace weaving's. Wary of the shattered glass and metal framework that once housed the windowpanes surrounding the building, reporters assisted in the backbreaking toil of sweeping up the scattered glass remnants.
Boaters and yachtsmen employed the asphalt driveway edge of the concrete ramp that leads back to the repair yard as a makeshift boat launch like Noah’s children that launched their improvised search and rescue mission into the murky waters.
Jefferson Starship created a tune called “Winds of Change” the music somehow taunting and reminiscent of my younger years. It tells of winds howling and beast on the prowl. Marty Balin, singer and songwriter for Jefferson Starship wrote many songs, many beautiful lyrics that only his voice could do justice to.
Justin Hayworth wrote a song for War of the Worlds, entitled, “Now you’re not here”. If you listen intently to these songs it will pull at your heartstrings for in the mechanics of the songs lyrics your soul realizes what tragedy happens in lives.