Too many tales of the sea
Have been told:
Too many lines,
Lies and truths and
Great white whales,
And monsters, and myths
And mists and mysteries.

But there is no mystery
In why I write of,
Again, the sea.

Perhaps in the blue
Lies a part of my soul,
But I know in my heart
Lies a part of the sea.
When the part of the sea in my heart,
And the part of me in the sea
Come together,
I am a whole person.

When riding waves, whether
By board or by sail,
I am a whole person.
Not one with the elements,
But whole as a master,
And slave to the elements.
Perhaps a slave to creation.

A slave to the creation that
Man, as a man, had no hand in.
Instead of the slave to the
Business machine,
The despondent and cowardly
Land bound schemes,
That man, as a man,
Has enslaved himself to.

When riding waves what
Little is there
To the world and its troubles
And pains;
This becomes the world
As I melt in contemplation
Of the world as my world
On the sea.

And what little wonder
Can there be that
Monsters, and myths,
And the mysteries
Brought back on the
Tongues of the sea-faring
Travelers, are told of
By the men of the sea.

For every man with the
Sea in his heart,
And his soul in the blue,
Cannot but help tell
Of the love of his life.

Never can there, then,
Be too many tales of the sea.
I, for one,
Have just begun
To tell of my love of,
Again, the sea.