Cat & Oar

I'm cleaning up my hard drive. I've been thinking about reviving my activity here because there has certainly been boat work being done, and if I weren't so tired at the end of the day I'd tell you all about it.

Meantime, here's a flashback from the summer of 2009.
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Arthur sits by the paddle with a proprietary air.  He wears a tux with white bloomers.  His species keeps him from looking ridiculous in that getup, but it doesn't help him with the paddle.

His slow blink makes warmth uncurl from my belly upward.  My eyelids droop sweetly.  He would squirm if it weren't too much work.  Instead he squints and looks away.

One hand rests on the tiller, the unvarnished part. The sanded warmth touches my skin.  The gentle pressure makes my carpal bones catch fire.  I'm never allowed to forget:  I worked too much. I can't work much now.

                     

I couldn't make three strokes with that paddle.  It's there to soothe the Coast Guard, like the life jackets shut inside the bench.  They always check those, instead of making sure the fire extinguisher works.   

It's tough to use a life jacket that's inside the boat you just fell out of. 

Most liveaboard boats die by fire.  The Coast Guard counts unused life jackets.   

That's humanity all over.