August 22, 2005
Returning from Ipswich Bay
Am now back in Pittsburgh.
Here I am in the kayak that I found ashore last year. I just plugged the hole in the stern with some duct tape, and the only water the kayak took on was the water from me paddling. I made it from the Lighthouse to Folly Point, about three miles. Consequently, I got too much sun. But it was worth it. Along the way, I started writing this poem:
Mortimer B., or The Rime of the Persnickety Mariner
Mortimer B. went out to sea in his Pamlico Kayak Shell.
For an afternoon’s leisure, Mr. B. sought the pleasure
Of paddling his boat for a spell.
The ocean was calm the weather was warm;
Mort he knew nothing of the oncoming storm
He also learned that he forgot his rudder,
and his boat had developed a crack
“I like to go boating,” he said with a shudder.
“But I also like to get back.”
The thunder was sounding, the rain it came pounding,
The flood found its way to the hull.
Three miles from land, with lightning at hand,
Said Mort, “At least it ain’t dull.”
Mortimer B. was never the kind to confront a problem sitting,
And standing for battle,
With only a paddle,
He told the sea, “It’s you should be quitting.”
He might have been saved but a forty-foot wave approached that Pamlico Shell
And Mortimer stood (Like a hardy fool would)
Shook his fist, and said, “Go to hell.”
In spite of his curse (You know the ocean’s heard worse),
The kayak went down to the briny,
And Mortimer thought,
Though his life had been bought,
“At least I got off my heiny.”
The kayak eventually went back to port,
But the ocean decided to keep our dear Mort.
He’s stayed in the ocean just bobbing and floating,
A reminder to others we can’t always be boating.
Kayakers come and go, but plastic you know,
Seems to last on this earth forever;
So to honor the man and his courageous last stand,
I’ve decided to do something clever.
I have named the shell after Mortimer B.
What once was his joy and his doom —
His legacy has become his namesake
And both are linked now in perpetuum.
So if it’s life you treasure, instead of true pleasure,
Stay off the Mortimer B.
But if you’re not too weak,
And it’s pleasure you seek,
And you love the swell and the tide.
Grab yourself a paddle,
Set out for the sea,
And join Morty and me for a ride.