In Tillamook Bay the day the letter arrived
a sixteen foot Corsair
light, double hulled
found nowhere to park in a canal
low bridges, cattle walked along banks
a post office general delivery
provided an anchor to society
The bay was broad and shallow
as if it belonged somewhere south of Norfolk
like Port Royal Sound rather than Ponce de León inlet
a 16 footer following crab pots through the fog
arriving in darkness from Crescent City
to shelter from a boat elevator
with waves at the jetty to the ocean
Outside the jetty
next north ports await
around Clatsop Spit
so a restless sleep
anchored at the turn of the bay
waiting for dawn
An outgoing tide awakened me
drawing the vessel down the channel to the sea
pulling the Danforth up
sparkless motor in the dark would not start
so time primed with raising sail
hoping the entrance to the Pacific
didn’t demand Corsair surfing again
All day sailing north maybe five or ten miles
was shorn when I decided to come about
the tedious strive against the current
yielded to the bay again
I thought of the letter; my father had died
reminding me of memories
like when he led me into the Atlantic
to enjoy the Florida surf, long ago.
