The Shout

The wind is inconsolable.

Crouching to vent my drysuit,

I hear gravel scatter, greeting calls

as my fellow crew rush to change

for the Shout. What’s out there? 

they ask. I tell them what I know. 

‘It’s seven and gusting’, our Launching 

Authority says, ‘’it’ll be rough by Parker’s.’ 

This we already know.

One, two, whacks on my back tell me

crew are seated, feet in stirrups.

With an all clear port and starboard, 

I open the throttle, launch into the maelstrom.

The water is bruised purple and black.  

Our ballast tank full equals the weight

of three men in the bow, keeps our

nose down as we face the turmoil

of this inland sea. On our port side,

a conspiracy of Cormorants

huddle on Salmon Island’s 

rocky crop, keeping watch.

In open water the waves

heap up, retching, dumping turf

stained lake across our bow. I power

up the face then throttle off 

so we don’t take flight at the crest, 

pendulum to a bow over 

stern capsize. By Hare Island

a turn to port and a beam sea

makes us wary of rogue waves

quarter side on. I hold a reserve 

on the helm - to power us away 

from harm if needed, and for safety,

steer in at forty-five degrees.

At Parkers Point with a boxing sea

and pyramid