Atlantic wind is harsh, stinging my face
and hands and neck, I lift my scarf against
its bitterness. As surf splashes my legs
I wonder what I love about this place -
The salt? The sting? So fresh, so wild and free,
creation in it's natural element
ocean boiling, its angry temperament.
There's maybe something of your genes in me.
A man who sailed, who grew, who came of age
out there amongst its fierceness, and its calm -
your comfort but a hammock in a storm.
Returning from your youthful pilgrimage
you carried home the wisdom of the sea
and now it lives with you, inside of me