Two days of sailing. Light winds, strong winds, no wind. Sunshine, clouds.
Glassy calm in the morning. A cormorant breaks the surface, a striped bass in its beak. The fish, surprisingly large, tries to wriggle free. The bird shakes its head, leans back and swallows, the shape of the fish seen sliding down the bird's throat.
Midday the wind builds, as does the overcast. Tired, chilled by the wind, I drop the main and jib, set out the anchor, lean back and put my hat over my face. Sleep. The boat rocks as tugs pass by in the channel.
An osprey sits on a crooked nest on a crooked post near shore, a chick no more than a month old next to the large bird.
A pipe band walks in a line across the park, five yards between each member. Casually dressed, it must be a rehearsal. The sound of the bagpipes carries across the water.
Breaking down the boom tent at the dock a man walks by. Dressed in a suit and carrying a brief case, he stops and turns towards SPARTINA. He watches for a minute, says nothing, turns and walks away.
A gusty southeast wind heading up Scuffletown Creek to the ramp. No other trailers in the parking lot. Blue sky. Sunburn. Spring.