Sailing in Istria

The pines, etched on Aegean blue,
Flail their fine batons as if to conduct
The faint moaning of the shrouds
As sail is sliced up into the flow
And whips like a greyhound,
Frantic before the lead is slipped.

Prospect the wind, discern inclinations
Guage prevalence and caprice
Strategically with out-haul, down-haul
Kicking strap, Cunningham and sheet
Pulled to feel the first miraculous
Capture, in evidence the ruffled wake.

The open water jumps with light,
Spray, like fists of diamonds,
Shatters on the plunging deck
Heeled beneath the taut bite of sail
Two arcing triangles, perfectly full,
Thrusting before the warm wind.

Much conspires to make this moment
Father and son stretched over the sea
Transient masters of a straining rig
Sun-seered, wind-washed, drunk on blue.
To our rapture, from another beaming crew
A light Bravissimo of applause.