Of Sea Scents & Soul Sense, Riding the Waves with Old Salt

 

When we breathe in the briny air—something clears—winds of clarity and renewal blowing through us; and something anchors. There is that deep sense of “just knowing,” of surety—a type of homecoming—not about sticking our heads in the sand, or hiding under the covers to effect that comfort—rather, it is that deep, clear, sharp sense of clarity: it relaxes into itself. There isn’t any doubt. But the surety doesn’t come from having nailed down every possibility, or manipulating everyone and everything into conforming to our expectations. It’s an inner surety, that even mindful of some likely soakings, that we’ll be just fine—and we know what to do next. Timidity has fled.

While we may refer to nautical charts, known facts, eye-witness reports, local lore and suspicions--joining us at the helm, is Intuition. Standing at the ship’s wheel, gazing out across the water, flanking us, sometimes in translucent outline, at other times in near flesh, age vacillating, is a sea-seasoned, tall-plank, ship’s captain, with crystalline eyes, in captain’s cap, pea coat & dungarees. There is: kindness, wisdom and challenge in those eyes---and info and insight we won’t live long enough to garner on our own, but is being freely offered. This Old Salt is the Presence of the Life Force necked down into something relatable, personal, companionable and useful.

We were never meant to ride the waves of our lives alone. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t develop reason, not use our brains, or blow off common wisdom—and, Deeper Wisdom, at times, flies in the face of all known common sense, drawing on a deeper Truth. This old Salt will also inform us, against all appearances of clear sailing, not only to not leave shore, but “absurdly” to batten down the hatches—only to be spared the ravage of an unexpected storm. It knows all manner of things that we do not—and is willing to share.

Imagine being gathered ‘round a map table, several shipmates discussing the best routes and the weather conditions as you explore where, and whether, to go next. In the corner, rocking a chair tipped back on two legs, is The Captain, whispering adjuncts, sage wisdom and knowledge, that is not floating the conversation in the room. We were made, engineered, to have this Intuitive Partner informing all of our contemplations and activities. Regrettably, with sometimes distressing results, we have blown this off as anything needed or necessary, seeing it as intermittent flukes —sporting an “I’ve gotten along fine on my own, thank you,” attitude. While we survive a lack of direct interface with it, we don’t really thrive unless we accept this Old Salt as our Ship Mate.

We’ve all had that heady sense of being “spot-on,” against all odds; well-meaning friends hissing “don’t do it,” and—we ARE spot-on. We score; we bring down the “big one.” We hear ourselves muttering, “At any other time —I’d agree with you. But . . . something’s different this time; I’m do’n it. We don’t know ‘why’ with our minds; we know with our bone-knowing.” On the other hand, we’ve had the occasion to hear our self-same voices, saying “I was so sure . . . “—and it didn’t pan out. Most times self-deception is the culprit, personal dishonesty—or potential harm to an unknown other.  Spiritual Override buts in: “Nope—ain’t let’n you do that; it’ll mess you (them) over.”

       Old Salt gives us space and respect we rarely give each other. It waits for Permission, with Patience unimaginable, to be Invited, allowing us free rein and reign--sovereignty of will: to our frequent consternation of feeling lost, confused and alone, “flopping around on the dock like a fish out of water.” On occasion, it intervenes without invite, maybe not even noticed, changing something only minute degrees. On rarest of occasions, it’ll blow the ship out of the water! – loosing us from a tangled net in the process. This occurs usually because something deeper of the soul is crying out for help overriding the obstinacy of the ego’s fears of being found either lacking, or Heaven forbid, revealed that it doesn’t have to be a victim of circumstance! “All you had to do was ask!”

      This Wise Presence operates through many mediums, including people: When I was 19, I had made an error in judgment. Distressed at the results, I felt since I had created it; I had to fix it. More than that, I was embarrassed to reveal the issue in order to get help. Stressed out, I reported for work for my usual shift. I hadn’t been on the floor long when the phone rang: No ‘Hello,’ no ‘How are you?’ — Just my boyfriend growling into the phone “What’s wrong!” When I got off work, we faced the issue together, and the problem was resolved. That boyfriend again: riding a city bus headed to karate class, I surprised the bus driver, telling him: “Please, I need to get off here.” I’d only just gotten on a couple blocks back. Kindly the driver stopped, at a ‘non-stop’ and opened the door. I scrambled down the steps, trotted back across the intersection we had just crossed, and stood at the cross-walk, craning my neck, scanning the traffic. I saw my boyfriend’s gold Chevrolet pick-up truck in the traffic. Flagging him down, I ran to the passenger door and jumped inside the truck; looking at his grinning face: “Knew you were coming.” I married this guy—with him 29 years, until he passed in 1996.

       It can work through timing and the ‘luck’ of forgetting something: think Sleepless in Seattle, when young Jonah leaves his knapsack behind at the Empire State Building, which brings him, and his father, Sam Baldwin, back to the observation deck to retrieve it, hence connecting them, destined, with Annie. In a similar manner, now many years ago, I was protected when getting off work extra late at night: a man approached, starting to harass me, as I was locking up. A worker from the next-door shop unexpectedly returned to retrieve a camera he’d left behind earlier, the threat melting into the night as the worker guarded me to my car.

        "Why?" we ask, initially, when something spools out that appears to derail us, capsize us, only to find out later—sometimes years later, it was steering us to ultimate success—in spite of apparent disaster. There’s often that eerie sensation of it being the road “almost not taken,”—the “left we took, when we almost turned right,” the intense sensation of “Could have missed that—altogether!”  We can make a “wrong turn” and, stopping to ask for directions, we connect with our next right employment. A snatch of conversation heard from an open doorway informs us of a pirate movie our nephew would love to see. We go to the movie. Next thing we know, we’re taking a fencing class that blesses coordination, timing and agility—where we meet the partner of our dreams, a guy who captains Tall Ships, bringing hours of joy out on the water. See you out on the waves.

PTMSC Blog, Connecting With Nature Through Art: Nature Journal...

There is a natural depth and richness in us that can slip away in our busy-ness, like a harbor seal slipping beneath the waves. And, like the harbor seal, that part of us is still there in the depths. A nature journal requiring presence, attentiveness and patience--inquisitive focus, is a practice that can restore us to the mer-magic of our own depths.

An enduring student of nature, I carry strong imprints from my age 4: standing in a flannel nightgown, barefoot in night-dewed grass, staring into the depths of the stars; washing my clothes at the riverbank on a three-week desert camping trip; standing in waist-high drifts of sleet at stream's edge as my father and grandfather cast their lines for trout; captivated by the massive curl of a glassine jade breaker; lulled into spontaneous meditation by the rumbled rhythms of the surf. 

More than four decades later, I sat a semester of  Natural History of the Southwest, at Yavapai College -- taught by an exacting, passionate instructor, Dena Greenwood-Miller, covering: flora, fauna and geology--including binomial nomenclature of living things, we 15 students growing depthed respect in our accumulating understanding of nature.

During the 16-week course, Dena assigned us 3 hours minimum a week, 49 hours, of nature presence and journaling -- day or night, no matter the weather, connecting with, paying attention to, nature's offerings. Through minute detail: drawings and sketches, collecting field samples, research notes and narrative, we recorded our interface with the wildness that holds our days and nights. We connected to the pulse, rhythms and cycles of nature's power, beauty and grace in ways we had only done in intermittent camping trips and weekend outings, in fleeting focus.

If I found myself, due to my heavy work/study load, coming up shy of the required three hours, the night before our weekly class found me on all fours, atop the bed, tracking the arcs of stars through the black ink of the sky, courtesy of a massive picture window. The dawn's ripple of light signaled the need to inhale my breakfast, before a sequence of rocking a jeep load of tour-guests through the red rock canyons, then rocketing off to night-class--my work, and my life, immeasurably enriched by that enforced practice.


The journal came with me to the Midwest, my interim home away from home, until I relocate to Port Townsend, WA, in the spring of 2018. I still pull this journal of nature's magic from the shelf and breathe in the desert land: the sprig of juniper, a Zen-sketch of a red fox in gray-phase, a riff of poetry triggered by a spray of stars--the high desert being my parallel love of all things sea.

In deep yearning to return to a coastal environment, available to me the first 44 years of my life--Washington, Oregon and Southern California, I was joyed to find this blog entry on Port Townsend's Marine Science Center Lecture Series! If you love the shoreline, all things sea, this is a rich, vibrant way to connect to the mystery in front of you and the tides within you:

PTMSC Blog : Connecting With Nature Through Art: Nature Journal...: Staff and volunteers head out on the beach to find subjects to draw and enjoy the sun What is nature journaling and why would anyone wan...

Adjusting Our Sails, to the Winds of Intuition

The set of our sails, not the wind alone, will determine where we arrive to. We need some wind, or else a lot of rowing. We do not get to direct the sea, nor the wind--but we can harness their power. It's one thing to know the patterns and locations of the sea and air currents, but given that, we need to know how to set our sails.


Sometimes we have a bone calling in the Haversian canals of our bones, a calling from the stars, a siren song from the sea--to forsake what was planned for us, what others think we should do, what we think we should do, what is the usual thing to do--and, instead, we set sail for the "more" of us, for our future selves, whom knows what we don't know, yet, but will reveal--dare we lose sight of the shore. If we leave the door in our heart open just a crack, allow just a hint of curiosity--it will come courting. We call it Intuition.



Lord George Gordon Byron


Childe Harold's Pilgrimage


“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,


There is a rapture on the lonely shore,


There is society, where none intrudes,


By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:


I love not Man the less, but Nature more,


From these our interviews, in which I steal


From all I may be, or have been before,


To mingle with the Universe, and feel


What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.”

Tides, Tracks and Stars, The Movement of Silk, Salt, Spices & Soul

Full riffs of Pirates of the Caribbean theme music ripple my mind as I silver my way home through the glaze of the snow-scape. Enamored, I’ve always been, with the call of distant seaports and exotic lands—tides, tracks and stars calling to me: the movement of salt, silk, spices & soul. This extends to the pirate mythos and mystique that has evolved out of our maritime history on this blue planet. 

During a brief opportunity to chat with a friend at work the other day as we were arriving and departing our work-shifts, we were discussing the first of Johnny Depp’s Pirates of the Caribbean movie series: The Curse of the Black Pearl, and his Captain Jack Sparrow character. I observed to my friend of Keira Knightley, sword in action, on the set—and my interest in taking fencing lessons at some nebulous point in my future. 

To my amazement, my friend stated that she didn’t see me doing that at all!—which echoed my bafflement of another time, in the past, when a friend I had known for years, in observing me, commented ‘That’s so sweet of you.’ ? Kind, perhaps--but I wasn't feeling at all sweet; my actions had come from integrity, but there wasn't much compassion at that moment. Amazed, then, and now, I ‘stopped dead’ in my inner tracks: Really? You don’t see me doing fencing at all? I was astonished—and disappointed to have her say that, inordinately so! And, I still think she’s a good friend.

Both times, mutually supportive and encouraging of our shared creative energies, our parallel spiritual views—my buccaneer qualities were invisible to them. In the recent event? On-the-spot analysis chocks it up to the environment in which we had come to know each other: she’s never had the opportunity to see the Jack Sparrow side of me. And, the first circumstance—now years ago? Ehhh—she’d seen my Jack Sparrow in action, but it didn’t really fit into her view of me, so it got dismissed--ignored. We’re still friends.

The swashbuckler part of me is an integral part of my being, a constant thread in the fabric of my nature, from a very young girl, onward: I still love to wrestle, climb trees, and, within moderation, to “fight:” I love a good tussle, whether it be rolling on the ground or a session of mental fencing. This dip of sadness at this invisibility of my pirate self? The Pirate in me wants to be seen and heard. Perhaps that is a part of what the ‘piracy’ is about: this wild-hare part of me is often unrecognized, and it’s staking it’s claim in the world, operating outside bounds to meet its needs—and a little sassy about it. 

Her “I can’t see you doing that at all,” set me ‘back on my haunches.’ In its absence, I had clarity that I wanted this definition of me included in her perception of me: The definition of the word, Definition, is: meaning, characterization, designation. Does designation equal destination? Am I the ‘Captain of my ship? The “ship” of my life is my definition of myself—and the interpretation of the people, relationships and events is my life rudder, by which I navigate my world. I’ve been being entertained for the last couple of days by my all-over-the-map reaction to this. I felt like a very core part of me, apparently, had fallen of the map!

It fired off a ‘cannon shot’ in my consciousness about definitions and interpretations. I felt like I was ‘in-the-brig’ of an externally imposed non-definition, not by how she saw me, but by what she didn’t see. It bordered on funny to observe myself in this; but not quite. While many of my self-definitions have been nothing, if not fickle, this pirate thing has been a continuous thread in my psyche.

My age 4, I used to carry around a geography book, like a doll. It showed our globe, seas, distant lands and ports—of which I YEARNED. I’ve been getting a nudge to write a book about the spice trade and the movement of soul—how trade routes not only brought exotic tastes and textures to our palettes, but the immigration, integration and imagination of new cultures and spiritual insights, as well. 

To date, my book is only a giant file of nautical terms, a stack of spice & herb books, a collection of food history notes, some map tracings—and an assortment of Putumayo cultural music CD’s. I hadn’t been providing much wind for “Jack’s” sails until I started this blog December 1st. The delay on the book is a set of sagging sails, slack from the lack of soul-wind, of recent months: It wants written. My pirate needs an adventure. More important than my friends recognizing my saucy swashbuckler is that I do.

The Wind in Our Sails

Our interior sails are filled with conceptual winds, with the nuances of perceptual breezes, eddies of our Soul's stirrings—these are the air currents that carry us into our spiritual seas, into the mystic ports of our deeper callings--to those things which "we must do." Deeper than a craving, these are ports of homecoming to our souls, something of which we already carry on board, a pregnant vessel, Soul-yearnings seeking to be born of us--seeking expression in this world.

Adam Leipzig—in his 10 minute TED Talk on finding our Life Purpose posed 5 questions to provide new insight, clarity and interpretation to our often strained and muddled response to the two standard questions that come up at group functions or meetings:  

“What’s your name?” and “What do you do?” 

The standard response would be something like this: 

Hi—I’m Coquille. I’m a Prayer Practitioner at a Prayer Call Center.”  

While that is an answer . . . there’s not much juice in that response. It doesn’t capture the vibrancy of doing this work, and the changes that arrive the callers’ experiences, nor mine. 

Adam guided the audience to consider these 5 questions in designing a response that would more accurately reflect not just the situation, but the deeper, subterranean events of the work that we do: 

Questions:  

1.  Who Are You? (Name) 

2.   What Do You Do?

(Not necessarily a job, because you may be in between job titles, rather to focus on the essence or elements of the work—see below.)  

3.   Who do you do this for?

(What is your target group?—some succinct definers) 

4.   What they needed?

(Why would these people seek you/what you do?) 

5.   The changes that result from their needs met?

(The outcome/positive effect of your work with these individuals) 

So here’s a revised response to those two standard questions: 

Hi--I’m Coquille.  

I guide people who are in a state of Divine Restlessness—people seeking fresh winds to fill their sails—carrying them to deeper, richer, more fulfilling experiences. Starting with clarity of their concerns and yearnings, I affirm a synthesis of metaphysical Spiritual Truths (Affirmative Prayer) at the call center, or, in other contexts, I share Mystical, Jungian, Shamanic and Life Experience wisdom insights, steering people to a renewed sense of worth and competency, providing new interpretive and narrative tools, pointing them to success by prompting consent to the Native Presence, Power and Wisdom within.
 

These 5 questions breathed life into the perceptions of who I am, what I do—and why; not only in my “day job,” but in the larger work of my life. ‘Hats Off’ to Mr. Leipzig for the rich change in perspective he creates with just these five questions—in a 10 minute TED talk; not a 6-week, $600 course!

Mr. Leipzig pointed out in his talk, that though the first two questions are about ourselves, the next three move outward to others. In this, there is a ripening sense and clarity of the blessing brought by honoring who we are, and putting that out into the world: while beginning with our native talents and callings, it strikes a shift outward to meeting others’ needs--the joy of casting off the mooring lines as they turn sail into their own Soul-seas.

 

Alice in the Looking Sea

The sea speaks deeply to many of us, not always in the same way, nor for the same reasons--there is sort of a "private contract" we each have; those of us that love the sea. When I go to the beach, I always feel like Alice in the Looking Glass: there's a big free-standing mirror, a sea glass, standing there by surfs' edge, reflecting back to me my sea-changes, my shifts of the seasons and seasonings of  my life:  multi-layers, shimmered depths, shimmies of currents, temperature ranges, arcs of moods, pallet of colors, textures, radiant diamonds, quilted fog, moon-silked lamé . . .

Deep sea fishing out of Newport, Oregon, I paused in jigging my pole for ling cod and red snapper, morning fog burning off. I arched back, relieving muscle tension, stretching my gaze  across the water. Transfixed, I stood peering into the arch of a white rainbow, as made of fire, a single line of vibrant violet girding her underbelly. I was SURE -- if our boat went through that arch, we weren't coming back! That moment of caught breath, the clarity of what I saw, is etched into me--a part of the lens through which I notice and interpret my world. At that moment, I was in a state of wordless Grace and Gratitude--that I could breathe and that I could see. I was made radiantly alive by that snapshot of reality. It's a sea-tattoo I wear on the inside, like the seahorse tattoo I wear on the outside, upper right arm.

There is SOMETHING for some of us about the sea; about Tall Ships. Something happens when I gaze the slope of a ship's hull cleaved by rolling jade waves; when I smell the timbers laid out for her skeleton in formation--even a quiet quivering when I inspect the trees that will provide those timbers. A yearning fills my lungs, billowing like sail, when I watch a ship departing harbor for open waters.

Listening to gulls cry, kicking at a mass of seaweed, hearing my own squeal of delight whipped out of my mouth as I tease waves with my outstretched toes--these are higher notes in my octaves. The pound of the surf, or watching the hull of a massive ship rock in a cradle of waves tap the bass notes. The Sea and Tall Ships call something out in me, like a call and response script. There is a dialogue ongoing  with me and salt brine, creak of wood planks, snap of massive sails: a readiness, a mischievous goading, a "spiritual trap" set for me in this environ: Something of the sea challenges the very best within me to come to the fore, and--even the worst in me to come skulking behind, not to be left out of the fun and fray. The whole cargo of me steps on board. There are a lot of situations, a lot of relationships, where I leave part of me behind, edit something out--a blessing for all concerned that it is so. Not so the Sea and those Tall Ships. When there is approach, what arrives is all I ever have been, all I ever will be: Past and Future, meeting at water's edge, heart-strings thrumming: Sea siren's harp--an ancient calling, always a'newing.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in a braid of eloquence and lust caught some of this in his word-net:


The Building of the Ship  from The Seaside and the Fireside by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)

---

"Build me straight, O worthy Master! 
   Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 
   And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

The merchant's word 
Delighted the Master heard; 
For his heart was in his work, and the heart 
Giveth grace unto every Art.

A quiet smile played round his lips, 
As the eddies and dimples of the tide 
Play round the bows of ships, 
That steadily at anchor ride. 
And with a voice that was full of glee, 
He answered, "Erelong we will launch 
A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea!" 
And first with nicest skill and art, 
Perfect and finished in every part, 
A little model the Master wrought, 
Which should be to the larger plan 
What the child is to the man, 
Its counterpart in miniature; 
That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labor might be brought 
To answer to his inward thought. 
And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 
The various ships that were built of yore, 
And above them all, and strangest of all 
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 
Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
With bows and stern raised high in air, 
And balconies hanging here and there, 
And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 
And eight round towers, like those that frown 
From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 
And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis, 
Shall be of another form than this!" 
It was of another form, indeed; 
Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
A beautiful and gallant craft; 
Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 
Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 
Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm, 
And that the currents of parted seas, 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course.

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 
   With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 
   And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

Covering many a rood of ground, 
Lay the timber piled around; 
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 
And scattered here and there, with these, 
The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 
Brought from regions far away, 
From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 
And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! 
Ah! what a wondrous thing it is 
To note how many wheels of toil 
One thought, one word, can set in motion! 
There's not a ship that sails the ocean, 
But every climate, every soil, 
Must bring its tribute, great or small, 
And help to build the wooden wall!

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy. 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech.

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 
The old man and the fiery youth! 
The old man, in whose busy brain 
Many a ship that sailed the main 
Was modelled o'er and o'er again;-- 
The fiery youth, who was to be 
the heir of his dexterity, 
The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, 
When he had built and launched from land 
What the elder head had planned.

"Thus," said he, "will we build this ship! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 
And follow well this plan of mine. 
Choose the timbers with greatest care; 
Of all that is unsound beware; 
For only what is sound and strong 
to this vessel stall belong. 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 
And the UNION be her name! 
For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee!"

The Master's word 
Enraptured the young man heard; 
And as he turned his face aside, 
With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 
Standing before 
Her father's door, 
He saw the form of his promised bride. 
The sun shone on her golden hair, 
And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 
With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 
Like a beauteous barge was she, 
Still at rest on the sandy beach, 
Just beyond the billow's reach; 
But he 
Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! 
Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far excelleth all the rest!

Thus with the rising of the sun 
Was the noble task begun 
And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 
Were heard the intermingled sounds 
Of axes and of mallets, plied 
With vigorous arms on every side; 
Plied so deftly and so well, 
That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 
The keel of oak for a noble ship, 
Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong 
Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor well begun, 
And not perplexed and multiplied, 
By idly waiting for time and tide!

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill, 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back again, 
The chance and change of a sailor's life, 
Want and plenty, rest and strife, 
His roving fancy, like the wind, 
That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 
And the magic charm of foreign lands, 
With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 
Where the tumbling surf, 
O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
And the trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
With all its terror and mystery, 
The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind! 
And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 
The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark, 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast!

Day by day the vessel grew, 
With timbers fashioned strong and true, 
Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 
Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
A skeleton ship rose up to view! 
And around the bows and along the side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 
Till after many a week, at length, 
Wonderful for form and strength, 
Sublime in its enormous bulk, 
Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! 
And around it columns of smoke, up-wreathing. 
Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 
Caldron, that glowed, 
And overflowed 
With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 
And amid the clamors 
Of clattering hammers, 
He who listened heard now and then 
The song of the Master and his men:--

"Build me straight, O worthy Master. 
   Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 
   And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"

With oaken brace and copper band, 
Lay the rudder on the sand, 
That, like a thought, should have control 
Over the movement of the whole; 
And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 
Would reach down and grapple with the land, 
And immovable and fast 
Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! 
And at the bows an image stood, 
By a cunning artist carved in wood, 
With robes of white, that far behind 
Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 
It was not shaped in a classic mould, 
Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 
Or Naiad rising from the water, 
But modelled from the Master's daughter! 
On many a dreary and misty night, 
'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 
Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 
Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
The pilot of some phantom bark, 
Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 
By a path none other knows aright! 
Behold, at last, 
Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place; 
Shrouds and stays 
Holding it firm and fast!

Long ago, 
In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 
When upon mountain and plain 
Lay the snow, 
They fell,--those lordly pines! 
Those grand, majestic pines! 
'Mid shouts and cheers 
The jaded steers, 
Panting beneath the goad, 
Dragged down the weary, winding road 
Those captive kings so straight and tall, 
To be shorn of their streaming hair, 
And, naked and bare, 
To feel the stress and the strain 
Of the wind and the reeling main, 
Whose roar 
Would remind them forevermore 
Of their native forests they should not see again.

And everywhere 
The slender, graceful spars 
Poise aloft in the air, 
And at the mast-head, 
White, blue, and red, 
A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 
Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 
In foreign harbors shall behold 
That flag unrolled, 
'T will be as a friendly hand 
Stretched out from his native land, 
Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless!

All is finished! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 
To-day the vessel shall be launched! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
And o'er the bay, 
Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
The great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old, 
Centuries old, 
Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
Paces restless to and fro, 
Up and down the sands of gold. 
His beating heart is not at rest; 
And far and wide, 
With ceaseless flow, 
His beard of snow 
Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 
He waits impatient for his bride. 
There she stands, 
With her foot upon the sands, 
Decked with flags and streamers gay, 
In honor of her marriage day, 
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 
Round her like a veil descending, 
Ready to be 
The bride of the gray old sea.

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck.

The prayer is said, 
The service read, 
The joyous bridegroom bows his head; 
And in tear's the good old Master 
Shakes the brown hand of his son, 
Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 
In silence, for he cannot speak, 
And ever faster 
Down his own the tears begin to run. 
The worthy pastor-- 
The shepherd of that wandering flock, 
That has the ocean for its wold, 
That has the vessel for its fold, 
Leaping ever from rock to rock-- 
Spake, with accents mild and clear, 
Words of warning, words of cheer, 
But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 
He knew the chart 
Of the sailor's heart, 
All its pleasures and its griefs, 
All its shallows and rocky reefs, 
All those secret currents, that flow 
With such resistless undertow, 
And lift and drift, with terrible force, 
The will from its moorings and its course. 
Therefore he spake, and thus said he:-- 
"Like unto ships far off at sea, 
Outward or homeward bound, are we. 
Before, behind, and all around, 
Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 
Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
And then again to turn and sink, 
As if we could slide from its outer brink. 
Ah! it is not the sea, 
It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 
But ourselves 
That rock and rise 
With endless and uneasy motion, 
Now touching the very skies, 
Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
Ah! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level and ever true 
To the toil and the task we have to do, 
We shall sail securely, and safely reach 
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 
Will he those of joy and not of fear!"

Then the Master, 
With a gesture of command, 
Waved his hand; 
And at the word, 
Loud and sudden there was heard, 
All around them and below, 
The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 
Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
And see! she stirs! 
She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel, 
And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
With one exulting, joyous bound, 
She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 
Take her to thy protecting arms, 
With all her youth and all her charms!"

How beautiful she is!  How fair 
She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care! 
Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 
Through wind and wave, right onward steer! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 
Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! 
Humanity with all its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'T is of the wave and not the rock; 
'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
And not a rent made by the gale! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea 
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!