From the Poop Deck

Seaworthy Ideas and Stuff

Paul Kurkowski

Ahoy mates. Ah, once again the smells of victory. Victory over Winter. Bottom paints, cleaners and waxes, they just sort of get the heart pumping just a little bit faster.

It won’t be long ‘til we’ll all be floating again. You could probably trace it back to being in the womb. Well, whatever it is, it’s a real comforting sensation.

Speaking of water, it’s low. The lake level that is, it needs rain. Not that I’m a fan of rain when I want to set sail. I just hope that the Michigan May rains don’t miss our mitten state this year. We need it.

More water related stuff:

For those who do and those that you know do, there has been a Muskie die off in Lake St. Clair and the Detroit River. The DNR is investigating and believes it has to do with a combination of (this years) rapidly rising water temperature causing a higher incident for bacterial disease (such as Muskie Pox) and spawning stress. Yeh, stress will do it, we all know that, don’t we?

Don’t be standing reading this next paragraph.

Also from the DNR: on April 19th the wonderful Clinton River, home base for so many of us, received to it’s (choke) waters 25,265 one year old (fingerling) Steelhead Trout. The fish were introduced to the Clinton River in Shelby Township. You can fish them out of the water (when it’s legal) but, who’s gonna eat them after their survival through long run off of the CR?? Yep, fish everywhere and not a one to eat.

Speaking of the Clinton: the CR boating access site (at the Sheriff’s Post) will be closed for an estimated two weeks due to a dredging project. The DNR has announced that lack of rain and unusual currents from the lack of rain have deposited three to four feet of muck extending 40 feet off shore. The date has not been announced for the start of the dredging.

That’s all the good news I have for you.Casting off all lines. Color me gone.

Paul Kurkowski “Space Hunter”

The Winter Of Fifty Five
By Lorenzo Caricchio

In the winter of my fifty-fifth year I truly understand what Melville describes as "a damp, drizzly November in one’s soul". My visage in the mirror is definitely growing grimmer about the mouth. And, while not actually pausing before coffin warehouses or following funerals, I do have a deep desire to step into the street and methodically knock people’s hats off – or the modern counterpart – flip the bird to each and every motorist on the freeway during my daily commute. Have the years done to me what the Whale did to Ahab? Has Savage Age bitten off a piece of me leaving only the dry bone of reminiscence to stump along the decks of my future? Am I still me? Was I ever who I thought I was? If not, then who was I, and what have I become? I decide it's time to take a tip from Ishmael and get to sea as soon as I can, and before it's too late.

Over the past few years I had dabbled with sailing; taking the sea in small sips, not gulping it merely to quench my thirst, but savoring it like a vintage wine swirled about the pallet. This connoisseurs approach to things nautical had led me to the belief that, if absorbed in sufficient quantity, the sea would set me free. It would wash away the sins of neglect and abuse that I had heaped upon my body. The holy water would restore the spirit to a soul depleted by duplicity and compromise. In short, the sea would make me whole again. I would be reborn by bathing in this fountain of youth. But being hesitant to dive into things like this, I had been avoiding the total immersion form of baptism, and like a Weekend Christian, I dipped my toe into the water and claimed an epiphany. All I had to do to now, I reasoned, to receive the water’s full restorative power, was wade in a little bit further. So, in late August, I signed on for a three-week stint as a volunteer deckhand on a Square Rigged Barque called the Picton Castle. A true Tall Ship, a working boat, in the fashion of the old Trade Winds merchant ships of the late nineteenth century.

Her immense white hull lay quietly against the pier, gracefully encompassing the complexity of her structure, as waves of tourists wash over her deck. They come to admire her, trying to understand the mysteries of her construction and operation. In most she evokes merely curiosity; others are inspired to fantasies of ownership or travel. A few, very few I imagine, stand in awe, clutched by a force that attracts and repels at the same time; like