Poem

The Cruiser's Life For Me
By: Dick Mills

There are many ways
to spend one's days;
But if the truth be told;
I choose my sails
and occasional gales;
I go south when the wind runs cold;
I love blue water and starry nights;
But the queerest my friends did see;
Was the engineer,
who without fear,
picked up his gear.
It's the cruiser's life for me.

Now sailor Dick
was not your pick,
for whom the north wind blows;
Why he left his home
in the north to roam,
the Eastern coast, God only knows.
He was always cold,
but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say
in his homey way
"I really ought to rebel."

On a September day,
we sat in the bay,
when the first cold breeze from the north;
signaled the season,
when by all wit and reason,
all hearty sailors come forth;

If our eyes we'd close,
then wiggle our toes
and imagine warmer climes;
It was great fun,
but only one,
of the wonderful things of our times.

That very night,
we set our sight
on the Intracoastal south bound,
We hauled up the lead,
raised sails o'erhead,
and slipped out of the sound;
Libby turned to me,
and "Dick," said she,
"Take me to the Bahamas.";
And if I do, I request that you,
turn off that dang news of Obamas."

Well, she seemed so low
that I couldn't say no;
so we headed out to sea.
Just a few days later,
we met a freighter,
"Welcome to Hampton," said he.

Through the Dismal we love,
despite snakes up above.
Liz City offers us buddies.
We think Ocracoke rocks,
and at Oriental docks,
drink coffee with tar heel fuddys.

With the warm to leeward,
we follow the sea bird,
while avoiding Frying Pan Shoals.
We yearn for the weather,
to go outside with tether,
a steady hand on the controls.
But alas we are stuck,
in Intracoastal muck,
making a lousy 50 miles per day,
When along comes a gale,
and we hole up in some dale.
Scrabble is not our forte.

Then the day comes at last,
where the weather forecast
: says, "This is the window; now GO!"
So we scramble to ready,
as we zoom past the jetty.
"Florida or Bust," is our quo.

Ah, the winds they were fair,
and the waves
we don't care.
We thrill in our flight to the warm.
In the late of the night,
we see Canaveral's light.
We go where the porpoises swarm.

Now tied to a ball,
in Vero we're all.
We'll stay here a month and that's sure.
Above 28 north,
we shall not venture forth,
till the south wind blows hot at the fore.
Then on to The Keys,
with a following breeze,
We'll lay over in Marathon's shore.

And after that,
it's time to scat.
We may wander hither and yon.
To change one's mind,
to refuse to bind,
It's the cruiser's privilege begone.
We may do this
and we may do that
we've learned to never predict.
But whatever fun,
we find in the sun,
at least something nice to depict.

There are many ways
to spend one's days;
But if the truth be told;
I choose my sails
and occasional gales;
I go south when the wind runs cold;
I love blue water and starry nights;
But the queerest my friends did see;
Was the engineer,
who without fear,
picked up his gear.
It's the cruiser's life for me.