They spoke of monsters of the seas and mermaids calling their
names. They claimed to have rung more salt out of their socks than most men
sailed on. I listened as each old sailor spun his yarns pausing for effect and
a long draw on his clay pipe. They sat on the gangplank breathing some fresh
air as the ship itself aired out the smell of vomit and stale grog. Months passed
as weathered sailors kept her on the course, the winds filling her sails promising
a swift crossing, but the sea has a mind of its own. Below decks, some slept
while others cheated in cards and drank an occasional cup of rum laughing at
the young stowaway who never kept so much as a breadcrumb down in the churning
seas. They stood their watch, alone with their thoughts of going home, some to wives
and children, others to the bar, and the ladies who welcomed them back. It wasn’t
the life for many a man, but for those who fell in love with the sea, she was
the only mistress that mattered. Down a darkened ally in every port of call
sailors could be found at tattoo parlors getting inked with the name of a true
sweetheart or sea creatures that came to them in a dream. Some chose the navy
anchor others just Mom and a heart. You don’t choose the sea one sailor said,
she chooses you. I listened to the old sailors whose time was drawing near to
put down anchor and try to live life on steady ground. But that wasn’t easy for
someone who spent a lifetime with sea legs and pounding salt water against
their wrinkled face. Truth be told, many a sailor will tell you when his time
comes wrap their body in an oil-stained cloth and dump them overboard at sunset
on a calm sea. Let them join the creatures of the deep roaming the oceans of
the world in peaceful harmony and a sense of brotherhood that truly defines a
sailor both on land and loving sea.
