Tarry Not

Summer Sanctuary !

Summer Sanctuary


Hear the owl back in the woods?

and Hear the small ones rustle through the grass and leaves.

Ripples on the water laugh as they play against the shore

Can you hear those breezes sigh through the grandfather pines?

All of these speak of old, great mysteries.

 See the stars over head?

 Arcturus Twinkling overhead, like an old friend, he reminds us, he hasn’t changed, he’s still around.

 And look, Sagittarius lazing across the southern sky. Antares tells us, “all is well”

Jupiter with her moons, and Saturn, overhead, bright as ever!

The Moon, Queen of the night with her entourage,

 the milky way.  Her million stars, each one created and known by the Creator.

Each one He has counted, each one He knows by name.

In this place, there is found room for all of Yah’s creatures. All Are welcome,

be they damaged or overwhelmed, tired or worn down. Even so,

welcome friend, here find peace, here rest and heal.

Listen for the Holy One, in this place you can hear his voice.

He speaks through his creation. Listen. He will speak to you.

See and observe his handiwork all around us.



Earth, water and sky are ever changing, never still, yet always they remain.

The same.

The Storm

The Storm / The Island

The Storm

I hear colors and see sounds

Stark black and white flashes

Electric zebra stripes exploding from the violent cacophony of mindless noises and screeching voices.

The sharpened tendrils of reality slash through the dreams of quiet solitude.  Dreams, thoughts really, of what could be.

And Yet

 If one will listen, perhaps the color of the rain may be heard, Multi-hued greys, no, not the greys of sadness but a cooling welcome respite from the summer heat.

Hear the earth mother’s gentle sigh as she brings nourishment to all of her family.

So, I say let us go back to the beginning , let us listen and learn.

Hear the voice of the Shekinah – the feminine aspect of Yah that is the Earth Mother.

So

Let us hear her voice and heed no others. Let us understand what she would say to us.

 And then yes

 we can have a quiet peace that cannot be shattered.

The Island

I wonder where the time went?

When was the last time we saw that drawbridge in the rear view mirror.

We found where the road divides and we all drifted our separate ways.

The island is still there, it changed, it is no longer our home.

A childhood vision is all that remains.

And yet

We are the bay, the islands and  shorelines.

Our ancestors, their spirits still roam these shores.

You can still hear their voices on the breeze.

Could we ever go back there and be together again?

 Early morning moonrise at sea.

My friends dropping by to say hello!

New website coming soon!
Tarrynot sailing.com

The Skipjack March Gale.

“Goddammit Cappy you gonna bust the mast right out of her you keep drivin her like this!”

Charles the cook, eyes big as saucers and obviously uneasy at the angle of heel (the lee rail was awash) and the speed the old girl was making through the water as he poked his head up through the companionway doors.

Even with a deck load of oysters the March Gail was fairly flying across the bay.

Atrus, gave him a hard look. “I’ll thank you not to use that language on this boat, Charles. You need to get below, tend your galley and leave the sailing to me. Send me up another shot o coffee too if it’s any made.”

“Yessir Cap, ah jus put on a fresh pot, it’ll be done in no time”

Charles scurried back below, and raised his eyes toward heaven and said “Lawd please let this ole boat hold together till we git to the dock!”

I was with rest of the crew on deck and watching with interest the race between the March Gale and the Lorena M.

Old man John, the Captain of the Skipjack Lorena M. had been making a point to antagonize Atrus.  It particularly annoyed him that Atrus and the crew of the March Gale regularly bested him. All morning, while they were dredging, taunts and rude comments, shouted over the wind and directed toward the Captain and crew of the March Gale. All morning, Ole Captain John would try to cut across our bow or try to get up to windward and steal our wind.

We knew eventually all this was going to end badly, and it did! On one tack, the Lorena M cut us real close just as we were coming about. Well sir, the end of our boom swept right across the stern of the Lorene M. Nothing hung up, but ole Captain John had to duck to keep from getting clobbered!

We all couldn’t help but laugh, Captain John all red in the face, getting madder and madder, yelling at his crew and all.  Captain Atrus seemed like he didn’t even notice, He set us on our new tack and just kept workin.

Captain John was given to having a good snort a whiskey in the morning time,

“just to get me going” he said. His crew, usually having to be rousted out after staying too late at the bar, were generally not at their best either, ‘specially first thing.

The Lorena M. was shoddy and ill found, her sails and rigging were raggely, patches here and there just to keep her going. Her multiple layers of paint were peeling off and her galley and cargo hold was cluttered and dirty. Castoff gloves and oilskins and various other items cast aside and strewn every which way. A thick pall of stale cigarette smoke and rotten bilge smell in the galley completed the effect.

 The galley deck hadn’t been mopped in…well a long time.

In contrast, the March Gale was well cared for. The boat was clean, and her gear and rigging were all first class. She had just come off the railway, so her bottom was nice and clean. The crew too, worked hard for Captain Atrus, we all knew he brooked no foolishness, but we all knew we would make money. Some of us he would keep on during the off season to help keep the March Gale up. We  knew too the Captain would look out for us, he made sure we ate good and the galley was always as comfortable as could be. Old Charles the cook always seen to that!

Charles, an older black man had been working these boats before most of us were even born. Some said he was a descendant of runaway slaves from the underground railroad and from the Indian tribes that used to live on the shores and marshes of the bay. None of us cared, we just knew him to be a good friend and a vital part of our crew.

 Even at his age he was as spry and agile as they come. We tried to keep him in the galley, but I swear he could not stand to see any of us working on deck. He had to jump in to lend a hand.

Charles could also throw together some of the best biscuits and oyster stew you ever eat. He had worked with Captain Atrus for many years and made it his business to look out for the Captain.

March Gale

PART II

Gittin back to the story,

Old Captain John and the Lorena M. Had left the oyster rock a good half hour or so before us. He was intent on getting in first so we would have to wait for him to off load. This would mean an extra few hours before we could finish up for the night. It would be well past dark before we finally make it home.

 Captain John cracked on all the sail that old hulk could take. The Lorena M. was heeled over and goin a pretty good clip through the water.

Captain Atrus, not ever known to get upset or raise his voice, I think had finally had enough of the taunts from Captain John. I knew that look though, first the eyebrows go up and then he gets this intense glint in his eye. When you see that, you better look out. He fixin to make something happen.

 We hit a right good patch of oysters, so we had a pretty good jag on deck, despite that old pirate being in the way all day.

Captain Atrus gave the order to stow all our gear so we could head for the dock. The wind had been steady out of the souwest all day about 20 knots or so. Just the kind of breeze the March Gale liked best. He had us shake the reefs out of the main and the jib and let me tell you the old girl took off like a cut cat!

Twasn’t long and we was gaining on the Lorene M. We all knew we’d pass them way before we got to the narrows. Old Captain John was trying to bear up to windward to thwart us passing. He was too slow, by this time Captain Atrus had got the wind on him.

 As we passed the Lorene M’s sails went slack for a moment when our sails stole her wind, the March Gail flew past her with a bone in her mouth! Them fellas should have known better than to try a race with us!

We looked back behind us again to see the Lorena M’s sails all aback and all the guys scrambling around on deck. Captain Atrus had us ease off the sheets as he hauled off the wind. “Boys we better tack back around and see if them fellers is ok” Said Captain Atrus as he watched the other boat.

We got around on the other tack and soon hove up alongside the Lorain M. Captain John hollered across that his mast had split at the deck and some planks had opened up, they were taking on water pretty fast. She was already sitting low in the water and rolling sluggishly. We all knew it wouldn’t be long before she was gone.

Turns out we had gasoline powered “jigger pump” aboard. We kept it aboard for just such emergencies as this, we used it frequently just to wash our decks down real good too.

We handed the pump over to them boys on the Lorene M. and got her going. It didn’t take long, and we could see that the extra pump was helping. The water level in the bilge was starting to drop.

We helped them douse the sails and drop their yawl boat in the water. The yawl boat had a powerful engine that could shove the Lorene M along at a fair clip. They could use their engine to push the stricken vessel into port.

Capt. Atrus, had us trim the sails so we could keep pace with the Lorene M. They seemed to be doing OK now but it seemed a good idea not to leave them behind.

And Old Man John? It seems he found Jesus that day. He profusely thanked Atrus for all his help, for the pump, and for watching out for them. Most notably he didn’t use even one curse word, at least within ear shot of Captain Atrus!

His crew, well they were as unrepentant as ever, cursing about having to work half the night. There will be no cold beer and no going to the bar tonight. They would have to unload they oysters, move the boat over to Henry’s boat yard and get her up on the railway.

Tomorrow they would have to work on the boat all day to get her patched up enough to go back to work. Work all day for no pay. Old man John seldom paid them for work on the boat. He said if they wanted to make money, they damn well had to keep the boat up so she could work.

The crew said he was a ornery old skinflint, but at least he wouldn’t get too mad if they laid out a day because they got drunk last night. Somehow, they all made enough money to get by on.

As we watched all this from the deck of the March Gale, we all decided to work just a little harder for Captain Atrus. All in all, we decided, we it got pretty good aboard here.

"The Old Man" Original artwork by Sharon Phillips

The Old Man

The old man….

I don’t know why he came to mind today, after all these years. I remember him as a frail, soft spoken old man. He must have been in his eighties.  Never said much to anyone, but to me he was always a kind- and good-hearted old gentleman.

 In my mind’s eye, I can see him now, heading out to work his trot line. He always left later in the morning than all those other guys. He wasn’t trying to keep up with or follow anyone, He just seemed content following his own path.

 I can see his friendly weathered, craggily lined face. His fine white hair ruffled by the breeze. Steering that scruffy ole tuck stern boat of his, laying his trotline in nearly the same spot every day.

 The boat was surely an antique, but you could tell she was well cared for. Sure, she could use a coat of paint maybe, but there was still plenty of life in her.

 There was a “Palmer one lunger” gas engine for power. A real museum piece even back then! It was loud! No muffler, just an open pipe poked out the side of the engine box.

There was no transmission or reverse gear, when he got where he wanted to go, he just killed the engine and let her drift.

 I was always fascinated by the lines of that boat, she had that low slung “hunting” cabin complete with those little portholes on the sides. She was built during the time when engine began to replace sail. She would have looked perfectly normal with a mast and a bowsprit.

There was a transom hung rudder with a rusty steel steering quadrant open on the aft deck. The tiller ropes (leftover, scrap pieces of trot line) by means of pullies and fairleads ran all the way around the boat. First to a small galvanized ship’s wheel with wooden handles and a wooden spool for the ropes to turn on, this was mounted on the aft bulkhead of the cabin. The lines then led further aft to a homemade wooden tiller.

 This simple design completed the steering apparatus. The boat could be easily steered while working his trot line or when running back to port. He had an ancient box compass to steer by in case the fog set in.

 Wooden running light screens sat on top of the cabin, wires poked up through them to reach the fixtures. I’m quite sure those lights hadn’t worked in years! The old man, he always left the dock in daylight and was always back in well before dark.

Sturdy looking tongue and groove doors on the back of the cabin opened to the gloomy interior. The cabin really wasn’t big enough to sit in, just a place to keep your lunch dry, maybe stow your oilskins and an extra jacket.  There was a couple of those old timey cork life vests in there and a glass gallon jug for drinking water. An aged wooden toolbox with some rusty tools completed the picture.

He had rigged an “awning” made from canvas and some poles. This stretched out the length of the cargo hold, providing shade both for him and for the crabs he caught. The summer sun glaring off the calm river could be brutal at times.

He kept his trotline in a wooden pickle barrel.  A “cotton line” we always called it. Much lighter than what the other crabbers would use. He would cast a slipknot in it every fathom[1] or so to hold the chopped-up eels we used for bait. The trotline was about 3 furlongs[2] in length and weighted at each end.  “Bleach jugs” for buoys marked each end of the line.

The roller that hung over the side of the boat was fashioned from some 2 X 4 lumber and the rollers out of a cast aside wringer washing machine. They made the best rollers!

 The trot line was hooked on the rollers as the boat slowly steered along. Them big ol Jimmy crabs would hang on until they got up close where you could dip em. With a hand dipnet they were scooped up and deposited into the boat.

We’d always watch out for him, puttering on out to the river in the mornings. He’d catch a few bushels of crabs, then head back in in the afternoons. He would load his catch onto a rusty and creaky old Ford pick-up and haul up to the Packing Company to sell.

After the day’s work the line was carefully baited, salted and faked (coiled) down into the barrel just so, ready for the next day’s work.

In his day he was a tough old bird, It was said the old man was one of the last Schooner men. He was a Captain, spending his youth at sea. He had hauled cargo up and down the East Coast, New England and New York right on down to the islands of the Caribbean. He even ran watermelons and produce up and down the bay on the Bugeyes when they roamed the bay.

He sailed for the Merchant Marine in the “Great War’ and even had a ship blown out from under him once. The story was that he spent a week or so drifting in a raft before he was finally picked up. He stayed at sea until the threat was gone, until his country no longer needed him.

So, we watched over this old man until one day we found that old boat adrift. The engine was shut down and everything aboard was in place. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

We all took to our boats to search for him, yet it was still several days before we could find his body, before the Bay would release him to us.

I realize now, what a treasure he was to our community. He had no family, but we were all his family.

He was laid to rest behind the old church. The whole island turned out to say their goodbyes to him.

We towed that old boat up back creek and left her there to die. Her planks and frames slowly return to the bay that spawned her. Her bones make a  home to all the creatures that call the marsh home. Yet that old man lives on.

I can see him now, steering that old boat out the river, his white hair stirred by the breeze and his kindly, wrinkled old face looking back to me. 

Joe Phillips

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[1] Fathom = 6 feet

[2] Furlong = 660 feet

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Dad, On the F/V Kathy, 1971 somewhere around  Kent Island.

Moon Tide and Fog

The marsh is quiet tonight, just a gentle shush

Of the spent swells washing the edge of the shore.

 The penny winkles sway on their slender green perch, just out of reach of any hungry fish that may happen by on high water.

A gentle rasping sigh as the slightest of hint of a breeze ruffles the tops of the bullrushes .

The fog closes in around everything, a soft damp cloak

that covers land and water.

 In it’s soft embrace it seeks to comfort all creation.

The moon peeks through the mist as if to say “Yes,I am here”, then she hides her face again.

She is the queen of the tides.

The mist, it sticks to one’s skin - a million little droplets.

Breathe in the moist, salt laden air, the fragrance of life.

Hear the sounds of the small ones as they scurry along their hidden pathways.

Fur, Fins and feathers,

web foot and hoof,

They are all here in this place they call home.

A place, mostly hidden from us,

yet we are blessed with a fleeting glimpse from time to time.