...but not sailable.

If no snow there would be 100 iceboats in this photo. We made do with lunch at Gordy’s.

Still dinking around—but getting close to finishing. A bit more optional trim, seats, the skeg, paint, and that’s it.

Very strong and very light. Thinking about a trans-Atlantic crossing.

Every so often I come across a poem I like. Here’s one:

High Dangerous
Catherine Pierce

High Dangerous
is what my sons call the flowers—
purple, white, electric blue—
pom-pomming bushes all along
the beach town streets.
I can’t correct them into
hydrangeas, or I won’t.
Bees ricochet in and out
of the clustered petals,
and my sons panic and dash
and I tell them about good
insects, pollination, but the truth is
I want their fear-box full of bees.
This morning the radio
said tender age shelters.
This morning the glaciers
are retreating. How long now
until the space-print backpack
becomes district-policy clear?
We’re almost to the beach,
and High dangerous! my sons
yell again, their joy in having
spotted something beautiful,
and called it what it is.