I Must Go Down to the Seas Again

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.


I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

                                                                         John Masefield

We had turned North from the Gulf Coast for a few days at home in Montgomery.  It was a time for sorrow and relief.  When the family fell back into normal rhythms, there were the  same questions: “So when are you leaving THIS time?”  “How long?”  “ Don’t you ever get tired of old what’s his name?”
I had no answers, but of a night I swear I heard these mumbled cadences repeating like a far off drum beat as I tried to fall asleep….  Patty, I imagined, was mumbling in her sleep, voicing her preferences and perhaps giving evidence that she spent way too much of her youth among English Majors…

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

So Sunday afternoon, leaving sunshine and azalea blooms, we headed South into wind “like a whetted knife”   watching our MPG’s drop into the single digits.  Ocean Springs Mississippi was 200 miles away and campsites at the National Seashore were First Come/First served. We were fortunate to book the last slip in the harbor and nestled for the night among tall ships and a few proud shiny ones. What followed was…  
a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.