Last night we motored, then we sailed again, first on our Fugle, mammoth twin V-8s threading the intracoastal’s red/green gates, then on our Sabre, strong seafaring men, Alan’s leukemia not lymphoma yet, his belly not yet bloated like a ball. Under the Tuttle Bridge we heeled the tall top hamper of our navy sloop and met oncoming power boats that yielded way. Then we steered seaward out of Biscayne Bay.
It is about ten years since last I sailed, not even Alan’s Hobie. Memory comes creaming back, turbulent on my lee. We brush each headland that we ever nailed and dream of every mountain pass we scaled.