pencil to paper.

image by author.

I saw my name on the cover page.
The cover page of my evaluation form.
Jon’s hands were resting on the page.
Previously, he’d said, “Please, take a seat.”
I took a seat on the bench across him in the cockpit.

The boat was moored in the marina.
We’d parked it in its usual slip.
Jon said, “Your instructor thinks you make
a good competent crew.”
I should make an entry of this in my notebook —
I thought. Make a record of it.
I carry a notebook with me at all times.

Jon said, “But he won’t approve your skipper’s licence.”
I had been training to get a skipper’s licence.
I like sailing a boat. A boat’s a good place to be aboard.

Jon cleared his throat and said,
“I’m sorry, Zak. You did work hard.”
That was a correct statement.

And the waves splashing against the boat.
The solace of the mercy of large things.
Physics and numbers at their best.
Outwitted by the elements.
(I might note these down, too.)

Jon said, “Your instructor says you’re a loner.
You don’t talk to the crew.
And that you — and I’m quoting him —
‘Zone out for long periods of time.’”

That sweet smell of heat.
Touching things that are rough to the touch.
Exposure. Precariousness. Fear.
The thrill of lack of evidence to the contrary.
Later — a mooring drink.

Jon said, “Well…”
And we left it at that.