The man who made friends with the sea
He knows the bay -
one of several on a harbour
opening on the Tasman -
knows its currents, its weather
its tricky shoals and rocks
better than he knows his wife
can read it at a glance
feel its breath on his bare arms
more intimately
than her moods
her pallor and fine lines
her body's tides.
He grooms
his boat, with its twin motors
mounted high. Tows it
along the beach towards the ramp
lordly in the rusty tractor.
No one launches a boat as efficiently
has led more rescues
caught more cod and kahawai
dredged more sweet scallops from their beds
quickly measuring them
taking only the legal size
and their predators
the eleven-armed starfish
that prise open the shells
to eat out their soft hearts on the seabed.
The man plants strong legs athwart the stern
talks knowledgeably about his bay
its sudden squalls, its islands
the mussel farm, rescues at sea
the brief life of the scallop
with its necklace of eyes
its clattering attempts
to escape the shucking knife.
He has the ample girth
of good humour and good living,
a beard to save time with a razor.
He knows local divers who
stay under for six minutes
without breathing, employing
the same reflex we used as infants
in our watery existence in the womb.
He knows the Pacific well
other bays, other harbours
but his choice is this one.
"Yes, I like it
there's always something happening here."
Classic
"It's a sad fact of life that men
wear better than women,"
the elderly Professor said.
"She couldn't come to terms
with the fact that she was past it."
This wasn't mere gossip.
It was Catullus's mistress
he was speaking of.
She enjoyed the series
on the Roman poets
but would have liked
more such observations
even though it was too late -
a pity, she thought, her father hadn't
equipped her with such useful wisdom
along with a classical education.
