doug fir

i stand and watch the tips of the tall doug firs

swaying at the whim of this day's wild winter wind.

their black-green needles undulate

as does the mane of a great roan steed

sent jetting to the barn, nostrils flared with white foam,

frightened from a flash of lightening

and the following explosion of thunder.

yet the thick trunk of the doug fir holds steady by her swollen roots

sunk merely inches deep in the rocky island soil.

there is a noisy lone gull hanging, as if by hidden wires,

in the grey sky just to the left of this majestic fir. 

must be by smoke and mirrors i suspect,

or a glimpse of magic from our mother creator. 

but for the occasional dip of its wings

the gull appears as still as the old granite statue

of the soldiers at the memorial near the town park,

stiff and sore from years of unrelenting boredom

of standing and watching tourists mill about

while they decide where to eat their mid-day meal

or search for the comfort of drinks in the bars of spring street.

i wonder, is the gull screeching its joy at stationary flight,

calling for a mate to join him in his festive ride,

or merely annoyed at the wind in the gull's harried search for food?

a large, long-dead, wet fir branch crashes at my feet,

thrown at me by the imposing fir,

disturbing my wandering thoughts. 

a widow-maker it's called, and for good reason!

the lofty fir reminds me of the very real danger in these trees.

but now am I aware of the soft rain on my face.

happy new year

i cast these words here for you

with rhythm, tone, and rhyme

as if my net tossed on the sea

snares phrases for all time

another trip around the sun

another year has passed

the seasons fly at lightening speed

and cannot be recast

yet on you sail your ship from ports

to destinations unbeknown

through waters calm and gales to come

too many times alone

each new year calls to celebrate

in poem, song, and lyric

the love you gave, the love you shared

the joy found in your spirit

breakfast

deer in the yard this morning
two great brown bucks
a smallish doe
a spindly-legged yellow fawn
nibbling at leaves of half dead poplars and flaking madrona
close to me as the supermoon at moonrise
and nervous as ticks on an opossum
breakfast on san juan island

for craig

the water warmed
as new sky burned red
first hatch of the day
rain clouds overhead

fresh north breeze
bring caddis to flight
dropping to the water
a trout's delight

life is a struggle
in this freestone stream
a trout has no options
a trout has no dream

our fisherman though
he has a dream
of mighty fish
of trout that gleam

that every cast
will lay just right
that today the trout
are on the bite

that by end of day
his creel is filled
with bright fat trout
and beer that's chilled

but today the trout
will swim in peace
no fisherman stalks
the nearby beach

his fly rod perched
against the wall
his waders lying
in the hall

our fisherman
has fished his last
having thrown
his final cast

my memory is not as sharp as it used to be. also, my memory is not as sharp as it used to be.

it's a bright spring day, 1988, and i can actually feel the hot edge of summer approaching -- something we have all to infrequently here in the pacific northwest. i can tell it's going to be a great day and i let ted, my partner on the ambulance, know it. he frowns and flips me off.

people think i'm a pessimist, (i prefer to be called a realist), but they haven't met ted. ted will complain about anything and everything -- work, our chief, his friends, his enemies, my driving, my patient care -- i know he'll complain to the undertaker at his own funeral. at least he doesn't complain about anybody behind their back. he's got no problem telling you exactly what he thinks about you. which probably explains why his nose is bent just slightly to the right.

it's been a busy morning. ted and i have just finished the paperwork on our last three calls -- all between 0800 and 1200. each one required a transport to the hospital and just as we were clearing the hospital we would get the next call. i love this work, but sometimes you want a little down time between calls just to catch your breath or pee.

we decide to go to the chicken drive-in for lunch. it's on the west edge of the fire district, but well within our response area. actually, the whole fire district is in our response area today because we're the only two on duty. the drive-in is a well-know landmark here. for years kids have been stealing the giant white chicken that perches on the roof, observing all in its sight with a slightly bemused look and smirk on it's face -- yes, bemused and smirk -- and hiding it as a senior prank. but like a homing pigeon, it always finds its way back about a week later, usually just a little banged up.

but just as we leave the station our pagers squawk again: man down, unknown medical. these types of calls can be anything -- a guy sleeping in his yard, cardiac arrest, electrocutions, assault, overdose -- anything. as we go en route dispatch has little more to offer, stating that the calling party seems confused.

it's ted's turn to tech, and mine to drive, and we come up with a game plan while responding; ted will grab the jump kit and defibrillator, i get the oxygen, suction, clipboard and portable radio. we'll both start with patient care if ted needs help, and then i'll get more info from family and bystanders, if there are any.

it's any easy drive -- mid-week, mid-day, and little traffic. we're headed to the most rural area of our fire district, and ted is double-checking our route in the map book. sometimes in this area the roads stop and start again in a different block. avenues become drives and streets become places, and then start over again.

as we get close i slow down, looking for the address on the mailbox, and i still almost miss the driveway. this house obviously gets very few visitors. the trees and brush are overgrown on the edges of the driveway, it's full of chuckholes, and the yellow grass growing down the middle is tall and gone to seed. there's no way we can avoid scratching the ambulance and we both know we'll be spending some time re-waxing the rig during the next week. the drive to the house is long and slow and i know it will be uncomfortable for the patient strapped to our gurney when we drive out.

suddenly, rounding a tight corner, we break into a clearing and find the house. this place is old, maybe well over a hundred years, and i'm pretty sure that this house was built when the property was first homesteaded. it's worn, but well-maintained -- part log cabin, part lean-to, part shed -- as each addition was added over the years. there's no paint left on the siding and the cedar shake roof has a couple inches of moss crowning it.

the driveway brings us to the back porch where we see a man lying on the porch, face down, near the neatly-stacked woodpile, a wheelbarrow on it's side near him. there's an elderly woman standing over him, holding her hands to the side of her face. i can hear her calling to him, but he's not answering -- or moving.

i bring the ambulance to a stop and we grab gear and head to our patient. but there's nothing we can do for the man. it looks like he's been down for quite some time. he's pale and cool, with some mottling. no pulse. no respirations. ted calls me off, and it's decided ted will take care of contacting the medical examiner and law enforcement -- protocol in this type of call -- and i will take care of the elderly woman.

i introduce myself and ask her her name. then i explain that i'm sorry, but there's really nothing we can do for the man, who i find is her husband, as we had expected. she appears confused, and i'm not sure if she can't hear me or is in shock from the experience.

i lead her into the house to get us out of the sun. the inside is just like the outside -- old, well worn, and well taken care of, very clean. the furniture might have been new in 1950. we step into the kitchen and sit at the table. there are only two chairs. she moves comfortably to one chair, the one she's probably sat in every morning for the last 50 years. i hesitate, but eventually sit in the other. i can smell the soup on the stove she was cooking for lunch. she tells me the vegetables in the soup are from last year's garden.

and i ask her what happened.

she tells me that her husband went out to work in the garden this morning. she thinks he must have come back and laid down on the porch to sleep because he was tired. she couldn't wake him so she got him a glass of water and set it beside him for when he woke up. hours later he still wasn't awake, she became afraid, and called 911.

i reach across the table and take her hands, which are folded in front of her. i stare at them and see how knotted and arthritic they are and i think about how much work they've done and how hard it must have been.

not knowing what to say, i look across the kitchen into their living room. there are no pictures of family, only a few old photos of her and her husband, taken when they were very young -- one, probably a photo of them at their wedding. no pictures of children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren. above the mantle are a few knick knacks, shells, and driftwood. i realize it's just been the two of them all these years. no children, maybe just a few friends.

i look back at her and study her face. she's quite old -- at least 80 -- and very frail. she had trouble walking to the kitchen and now i clearly see the crippling arthritis which has taken her. her back is curved, shoulders drooped, and has that hump on her back that always reminds me to stand up straight whenever i see it. when i look into her eyes i understand her confusion -- she has dementia. she's looking back at me, through me really, and i can see the pleading in her eyes, wanting to know and understand what has happened.

your husband has died, i tell her. he collapsed on the porch. there is nothing we can do to bring him back. can i call somebody to help you, i ask her. she still doesn't understand that her husband is dead, but she gives me the name and phone number of a friend of hers.

when i call the number it rings busy. i hang up and try again. still busy. dammit. i dial the operator. i've never done this before, and have not done it since. i don't even know if it is possible -- to call the operator and have her break into the call. i've only seen it done on tv and in movies. i identify myself to the operator and explain what has happened and what must be done. she takes our number and the number i'm trying to call. i hang up and wait. within minutes the phone rings and it's her friend. i explain that this woman's husband has died and i can't seem to make her understand what has happened. she tells me she'll be here in 15 minutes and hangs up.

i step back to the table and sit down, taking her hands again. when i tell her that her friend is on her way here, her mind seems to clear. again i explain that her husband has died and there is nothing we could do. now she understands. her eyes widen, she sighs, her breathing becomes slow and deep, and her grip on me tightens.

she wants to see him.

we walk to the porch, hand in hand. her grip is surprisingly strong and i can feel her bony knuckles pressing against mine. ted has covered her husband with a white blanket from the ambulance. i notice the water glass is still next to his head, right where she placed it.

she stares at the body. there is nothing i can do but wait. ted asks her if she wants us to take the blanket off him so she can look at him again. she says no, looks away, and drags me off the porch.

not looking at me, but still holding my hand, she begins telling me their story.

her husband bought this property from his father, 20 acres, as a wedding gift for her 60 years ago. my assumption was right, it had been homesteaded by the family. together they built the log cabin and the additions. she miscarried once and they never had children. they've outlived most of their friends and all of their family. for 60 years it's always been just the two of them. and more recently only the two of them.

she points our their garden, maybe a 100-150 feet from the back porch. near their small orchard -- i can see a couple of apple trees and a cherry tree. it appears too large for just the two of them. i see where he's been working the soil and already he has a few plants in, although i'm too far away to tell what they are.

she tells me about their garden, the different vegetables they've planted. what worked. what didn't work. how they store what they grow. how they used to trade with their friends and neighbors. how the garden became their baby, their child. how they nurtured it until it matured.

amazingly, her early memories of their lives together are sharp and clear and she would go into fine detail about small, though important, details. the color of their first pickup. what birds come at what time of year. the family of squirrels they would hand feed. what to plant to feed the deer so they would stay out of the main garden and orchard. the years the cougar and bear visited. occasionally she would repeat herself and ramble off on a different, unrelated, topic. but always she came back.

as i listened i began to wish i had known her and her husband sooner, and in better times. these were great stories and told of their life together. then she stopped and turned to me, her grip tightened again. i can't walk very far anymore, my legs and back hurt too much, she told me.

i waited for her to continue talking, but she just kept staring at me. i realized she was waiting for me to say something. as she waited, looking at me, i began to feel the sun burning the back of my neck and the loud buzz from the dragonflies. stumbling on my words, i finally said that a garden this large must have been a lot of work for her husband. she told me no, that they still worked it together. that each morning after breakfast he would pick her up and put her in their wheelbarrow and roll her to the garden so they could be together.

the perfect call ...

september, 1992.

today is my 42nd birthday. my wife and i are spending a leisurely indian summer day preparing for a family birthday party tonight. right now we're at the grocery store, in the parking lot, loading groceries into the department's staff car. it's not that unusual that i would have a staff car on my day off. i occasionally go on calls when i'm not dispatched for qa purposes, or to assist with the overhead on the bigger incidents.

it's hard to believe that fall and winter will soon be here. today is warm and sunny -- shorts and t-shirt weather -- and i notice, with just the hint of a slight smile, that there are plenty of ladies taking advantage of today's sun.

as i'm closing the trunk after loading the last bag of groceries my pager shrieks to life: "car/pedestrian accident, subject down, not moving, unconscious, breathing not verified." the address given by dispatch is about midway between me and our outlying station. we slide into our seats, buckle up, i hit the emergency lights and siren, and put myself in route.

it's an easy drive, not too far off the highway. traffic is light. we're making good time. i call dispatch and ask for an update. i'm given the same information as before, but this time she adds that our patient is a 10-year-old boy. i have dispatch put airlift on standby and make sure that in addition to the engine, rescue, and ambulance that was originally dispatched, a medic unit is also responding. disptach assures me they are and that we also have an additional engine responding.

my gut is starting to churn. this could be a difficult call for everybody.

i arrive ahead of the engine and ambulance, driving past the incident and parking just behind the vehicle and patient to block the road and give the crew a safe working area. this is a dangerous piece of road with a long downward hill and a blind corner above that. the ambulance and engine are coming from the opposite direction. i tell the ambulance to pull past the incident and decide to have the engine block both lanes of travel behind us. there will be a lot of work to do here and we'll need all the road to do it.

as i drive slowly past the incident i see that the car has significant front end damage and that the driver is still in the car, holding onto the steering wheel with both her hands. she looks young and very scared. i tell her i'll have somebody taking care of her as soon as we determine the needs of the boy. our primary patient, the 10-year-old, is lying mostly beneath the rear bumper, legs sticking out, not moving.

i give a quick short report to dispatch and request that they fly airlift to our location. they should be here in under 20 minutes.

the ambulance crew arrives with their equipment, slides the boy carefully but quickly out from beneath the car onto a backboard and determines that he has a pulse and is breathing. the engine crew has blocked the road behind us, set up flares to warn oncoming traffic, and is now also with us.

the trauma exam reveals that the boy has significant head and facial injuries, lacerations, avulsions, abrasions, bruising, and a possible fractured arm. he beings to regain consciousness, but also becomes combative -- not necessarily a good indicator. a witness tells us the boy was hit, thrown over the car, somehow caught on the rear bumper, and dragged approximately 50 feet. from the mechanism we all suspect he has significant internal injuries as well.

the incoming engine company notifies me that they are about a mile out and asks for an assignment. i tell them to find a place for airlift to land and give them the job of command of the landing zone. it's their job to find a safe and suitable landing area, establish communications with the helicopter pilot, and then report weather and landing zone situations. today is extremely clear, there will be no weather issues, but we are in a fairly heavily wooded area and most likely they will end up using somebody's yard or field for the landing zone.

the emt's on the ambulance are doing an extremely good job, as are the emt's from the first engine. we train hard at keeping our skills intact. and the taxpayer's have given us good equipment to work with. this is teamwork and there is little need for discussion or direction as to what needs to be done. our patient is on a backboard, with full cervical spine precautions taken. his wounds are exposed and treated. i can hear the siren from the medic unit arriving and i give them a quick short report as they pull up to the scene.

i step back and survey the incident. we now have plenty of hands on scene and work is going well. i assign an emt to take care of the driver. a landing zone has been established and i hear the airlift pilot talking with the landing zone engine company officer. the medics are dropping a tube in the boy's trachea to keep him breathing and prepare him for the flight to harborview, our state's trauma center.

as i turn i notice my wife talking with a woman in the driveway behind us. she's pale, shaking, and sobbing. this is obviously the boy's mother. shit! i should have seen her earlier and taken care of her too. i know how frightened she must be. emergency medicine is not pretty. she should have been told what we found and what we were doing. i promise myself i will do a better job next time.

my wife doesn't really know what i do either, or what emergency medicine and firefighting is all about. this is the first time she has been on a bad call with me. but she's been doing a great job with mom.

i introduce myself to mom and tell her that her son has some very serious injuries and that the best place for him will be at harborview hospital. we will be flying him there in a helicopter. before we finish the conversation we feel the beating of the helicopter's blades and then see the helicopter hovering overhead. they land about a half mile from us and the medic unit leaves to meet up with them to transfer the patient to the flight nurses for the trip to seattle.

mom tells me that her son asked if they could bake cookies together. she told him that first he needed to check the mail then they could bake. our witness told me that as the boy stepped away from the mailbox to cross the road, he looked in his direction but not the other, and started to run across the road, with the mail in his hand, back to the house. he never saw the car coming down the hill. and it was too late for the young driver to react and stop in time to avoid hitting the boy.

i asked mom if she was able to get someone to drive her to harborview -- she was too shook up to drive herself. she told me her husband was at the husky game and there was no way to get to the hospital. my wife suggested we drive her there. and so we do.

on the way to the hospital she tells me a lot about her son, how he's doing in school, sports, his brother, and again about baking cookies. she's crying quietly, and i search for comforting words -- few are found. i stay in touch with dispatch and advise them of our trip to harborview and that dad is at husky stadium and ask if they can find a way to contact him so that he can meet us at the hospital.

traffic is light on i-5, and we make it to harborview in good time. thankfully so, i've run out of words.

as we walk into the emergency department, dad is there! dispatch was able to call the stadium and have him paged. i cannot imagine how horrible it must be to hear your name over the stadium speakers, asking you to come immediately to the office for important news. you know it can't be good news -- they wouldn't page you because you just won the lottery.

their son spends little time in the emergency department getting an exam, blood draws, x-rays, and scans before being sent to the operating room. harborview is quick and efficient. there are more docs, nurses and techs working on him here than we had on-scene. a doc comes out of the er and tells them what injuries they found, what they've done, what they are going to do, and what they expect to happen. i listen in. i feel good about his outcome. we leave quietly, allowing mom and dad their needed moments together.

in the months that follow the boy makes good, but slow, progress. it takes a long time to heal that many wounds. mom and him stop by the station occasionally to say hello and thank us for what we did. months later he is still in a wheelchair, but his neuro and motor function are returning to normal and soon he'll be up and walking on his own. i think that there will always be slight defecits from the accident, but nothing traumatic enough to slow him down.

in the years that follow i lose touch with him and his parents, but i think often about how perfectly everything went that day for him. we had a witness that called 911 immediately and gave a good report and a valid address. the fire department was on-scene quickly and gave great basic life support care, followed by the medics with advanced life support. after a quick transport by airlift to harborview, he saw some of the best doctors available. and after his treatment at the hospital he received expert physical therapy. and love from his parents and family.

perfect. that is how it is supposed to work.

january, 2001.

i'm on shift today as battalion chief. it's just after midnight. we're bolted from our sleep by our pagers. one-car motor vehicle accident. vehicle on its top. utility pole sheared. occupant trapped, unconscious and not responding. the address is just a half mile from our outlying station. i know the crew will be there quickly, going to work and giving me a good short report.

i'm on the road, asking dispatch for an update. they don't have any more information than that given earlier. i have them put airlift on standby.

the rescue and ambulance from the outlying station arrive and give their short report: pickup on its top, pole sheared abut 4 feet from the ground. major damage to pickup. driver of vehicle pinned beneath pickup. no pulse, no respirations. major trauma to driver.

i arrive and establish command, giving directions to the incoming units before stepping out of the command car. when i open the door to get out it hits me -- the feeling of death in the air.

it's like the taste of a bad penney. chewing on aluminum. staring into the sun. biting odors. it fills my senses -- smell, taste, feel. i don't know where it comes from or how long i've had this horrible super power. but i know i'm not alone -- many others in the emergency services have the same feeling.

for a moment i'm stunned. my adrenal gland goes into hyperdrive. i can feel my pulse and breathing quicken and my brain goes prehistoric, telling my body to flight or fight. i concentrate on the tasks at hand and bring myself to action.

i have the ambulance crew re-check for a pulse. there is none. and by the injuries i can see i know there will be no attempted resuscitation of our patient. he is doa -- dead on arrival.

i cancel airlift and the medic unit and have the incoming fire engine block the road well away from the scene. i want to keep everybody away that doesn't need to be here. this is not a pretty sight. the police will be arriving soon and will want information to begin their investigation.

looking around i see a car-load of kids standing by the road near the overturned pickup. i walk over to them and ask what they know. they tell me the pickup was passing them, lost control, and rolled into the ditch, striking and severing the pole, throwing the driver from the pickup and trapping him beneath it.

they know who he is and tell me his name.

for a moment i can't breath. my eyes blur. i'm unsteady and want to sit down. i don't want to be here -- but i do want to be here.

this is the same boy who was hit by the car after getting his mail in 1992. the one we airlifted out. who, with his mother, visited us at the station to thank us and show us his recovery progress. our perfect call.

i steady myself against the ambulance and have the crew check for a pulse again. i so want there to be one. but i know there won't. there can't be. not with those injuries.

i survey the scene again, making sure we're doing everything we possibly can. i see a car stopping near the scene. it's his mom and dad. one of the kids drove to their house and told them about the accident. they live nearby. i don't want them here. nobody should see this.

they park where they can see the pickup but can't see their son lying beneath it. i run through the mess of people, vehicles, and debris on the road and meet them as they are getting out of their car. i remember how poorly i handled the call years ago and how i promised it would not happen again. they look worried -- no, it's not worry, it's terror. "what is happening?" they ask. but i think i know that they know exactly what is happening.

i explain to them what we found and what we are doing, but that it doesn't look good. he has no pulse and he isn't breathing. and we can't get him out from under the pickup quickly. i have to tell them the truth. lying wouldn't do anybody any good. they ask if we've done everything -- if we could check him just one more time. i send a firefighter to check his pulse again. but we know what the answer will be. they hear the firefighter's reply as he radio's back to me.

i ask them to go back home. to wait. i will be there just as soon as possible. and i will bring our chaplain to help with phone calls and arrangements. there is nothing they can do here. there is nothing we can do here.

trophy

it's been two weeks since i've seen her, and my first thought, which i unknowingly say out loud -- loud enough that a guy who i'm walking past replies "what?", which startles me -- is "jesus, she is one hell of a dirty girl." and I think, quietly to myself this time, "yeah, she may be dirty, but she's all mine."

it has been a tough winter. too much snow, too much cold, and always, as usual here in the pacific northwest, too much rain for way too long. and the weather has taken its toll on her. but today the sun is shining and i'm looking forward to spending some time alone with her.

as i grab a railing and step on board i always remember one of the golden rules of boating -- one hand for the boat. i've fallen out of boats before, always into lakes, but never into the cold puget sound. it wouldn't take long to drown or die from hypothermia here. the water never changes much from around 45 degrees. and the one other guy on the dock has left, leaving me alone, as i'd hoped. if i had to fall, i'd much rather fall in the warm caribbean, or in the waters off cabo, where we vacation. but that too would scare me. i've caught great gilled monsters in those dark deep waters and the thought of being with giant toothy creatures, who i'm sure recognize my stink, taking their well-earned vengeance on me, makes me shiver.

my wife, the best catch of my life by the way, and i bought this 20 foot trophy barely a year ago. we bargained a good price with the owner, although with the economy the way it is now, it's probably not worth what we paid for it. but it's ours. and we've put lots of wonderful hours on her. it wasn't exactly the boat we were looking for. we wanted a 24 footer. but when we found this 20 foot hard topper, almost brand new with less than 15 hours on the 4-cylinder cummins diesel, we changed our minds and made an offer.

bow to stern. port to starboard. i give her a good look-over.

yes, i'd rode her hard and put her away wet. her deck is scuffed with black marks from the rubber coating that covers the wire mesh on the crab pots, which are lashed to the top of the boat, reminding me of the dungeness crab feasts we enjoyed last year. there's green mold in the corners of the deck near the scuttles and in the two fish coffins, along with a bit of dried blood. the windows have some salt caked in the edges where the winter rains haven't hit to wash it away. nothing soap and water won't fix -- and a good waxing -- when i pull her from the water.

while in the back of the boat i open the battery box and switch on the batteries, then step into the small, narrow cabin and kick over the diesel. she starts almost instantly even though it's been two weeks since she last ran. she blows a light, wispy-white smoke from her exhaust until she warms up. the smoke is annoying and i wish i knew how to keep it from happening. maybe some day i'll check my owner's manual.

i unlock the cuddy and step down inside. the carbon monoxide alarm is sounding like a fucking banshee, not from the poisonous co gas, but because the boat's batteries are low. with the engine running to recharge the batteries it'll stop its shriek in about 10 minutes. i tell myself to wire the damn thing through a switch so i can shut if off -- but i know it'll probably never happen, just not high enough on my priority list.

the small cuddy is dry. i keep an electric heater going down here to drive the moisture out and keep mold away. sometimes i find a bit of water in the cuddy -- fresh water, not salt, so i know the hull doesn't leak -- but not this time. every time i step into the cuddy i remember that the reason we were looking for a 24 footer was to find a boat with a larger cuddy. one we can fish and water camp in comfortably. but the small cuddy will do for us now. there's room for the fishing gear when it's not being used, a porta-potty, and cushions to sleep on. and the boat has a heater that works off the diesel when it's under way so the cuddy and cabin are always toasty warm when we're on the water during lousy weather.

climbing back out i settle into the captain's chair in the cabin. the day is sunny, but cool. there's not a lot of heat in our low washington march sun, so i switch on the diesel heater to low and open the vent into the cabin. in less than 15 minutes i'm warm enough to shed my jacket, and as an added bonus the co alarm finally shuts up.

i switch on the marine radio and listen for boating traffic. it's pretty sparse, not many pleasure boats out today in the middle of the week. eventually a commercial ship comes up on channel 16, announcing to the mukilteo ferry that she is coming through their waters, and then the radio goes silent again.

"amanda" by boston is playing on the stereo when i push its power button. how strange and intriguing. boston is one of my favorite groups. and there was an amanda, many years ago, in one of my past lives. i find myself singing along and smiling with the memories.

i snap open the one can of cold beer i brought along. usually tequila is my drink of choice when boating -- sometimes too much tequila, i have to admit -- and yes, i am aware of the dangers of drinking and boating. but now the slight alcohol buzz, the smell of saltwater, the diesel's hum, and the breeze all combine with the sun beating into the cabin. i remember fish caught and lost. stories told. friends come and gone. adventures had and hoped for. this is reality.