The bay extends with my gaze

holds a cluster of ships with defiant masts.

I imagine the boats once thrashed through seas

people crammed in the cabin

clutching bunk bed posts,

hungry and homesick

without a memory of anything other than gray.

The ship now holds the pier

with a steel grasp

and there is nothing but sunshine,

tendrils of wonder that stroke the sea

weave into my hair:

strands trace my cheeks

like the small sand on my toes.

I have given up counting

the grains that compose this city shoreline

holding tourists with eager cameras

and papery bodies of sandcrabs.

I am standing with a friend

quivering foam between toes,

waves flattening on the smooth shore.

We lick sun drips of ice cream from cones,

look out at the sea.

The sky is open

and our jokes are funny

and there is no one left to recall the days

when boats toiled through shaking seas.