salt ice

Bootsie boiled the salt cod and potatoes in a black kettle. A glorious smell of cornbread filled the galley and steam from the pot fogged his eyeglasses. He hung onto a brass cleat screwed to the bulkhead as the Fairhaven Belle rose and then dove into deep troughs. The wind had turned and was now out of the nor'east. The temperature was dropping. Single digits. They were calling for seas fifteen to twenty feet and we were going to ice up, surer than shit. With dull resignation we all accepted what was expected of us tonight, not that there was much choice in the matter. We could do it or we could take a ride to the bottom on the Belle. Somewhere about midnight the freezing salt spray would start collecting on the rigging, turning one inch lines into thick white ropes as wide as your thigh. That's when we'd be called to grab the wooden bats and clamber around above deck, climbing about like monkeys and banging on masts and frozen rigging to free ice and keep the Belle upright. The wind would scream a deafening scream, and our hands would turn stiff. But who could stop, considering the alternative.

(I will now accompany my photos with short, short stories. A new year, a new idea, a new 365. Let me know what you think.)