I was a child
when the Whistle Wing
emerged from the dark,
lashed by rain,
my father’s eyes black,
lassoing the pier.
The white canvas
of the main mast trembling
and the boat pounding
against the wharf.
My father had escaped the squall
that ravaged the bay.
These storms were famous
for their deadly incarnations.
Lake Erie and its bay
considered among the most
dangerous bodies of water
on the planet, spared few
caught by these hurricanes.
The survival of my father
confirmed my belief
that Providence held him
in special regard.
That he was baptized
by the miraculous.
That unlike other men
he was special.
In my boy’s heart
I knew such things existed.
To me
as tears mixed with rain,
he was an odyssey,
a Greek who lived
in the shadows of Gods and poets.
My father had a charm
that left people calm,
ignited a glow in them
that was intoxicating.
Even the inanimate
was not immune to him.
The Whistle Wing,
the most beautiful sail
on the bay,
responded as if possessed by him.
It moved through the swash
as if a wizard were at the tiller,
and I knew,
as I returned to that night
over the years,
the human soul can be immense
in the spirit of some.
It could command a boat
to cross the River Styx,
defy Hades,
or look into the eyes
of a terrified boy,
show him how to laugh
in a short burst,
the way he swallowed
raw whiskey,
and grinned,
raising his glass to Death.