Your father used to buy a wrecked boat of some sort each fall
There were more of them available than you might expect.
We would spend the cold season in the workshop,
fixing holes, remaking fiberglass and teak,
scraping the salt off the brass.
It was slow work. We learned as we went,
an inefficient path to restoration,
but sometimes, the only way,
and one that leaves you wise
in what to do, and what to avoid,
slow work until one day you realize
you are done.
The moment of truth.
Will it float? Will it sail?
And more importantly, how far?
About this poem
The part of the story about boats and my father is true. Who knew it would become a metaphor for my life?