When we need real waves
and working docks we head to Westport
where men wearing yellow waterproofs
suspended from their shoulders
still stack crab pots
and pile nets in particular
order. Their calloused hands drag
bounty from the sea caught thirty miles
from shore. Working boats with
booms and full fantails take on tons
of ice and return with invisible waterlines
heavy with a day's catch.
This place doesn't need a ticket. There
are no lines and the parking is free. Watch masters of fillet,
pelicans, seals, surfers, and dad's building sand
castles with their children. Starfish decorate the rocks.
Look for block and tackle, boat cats sunbathing in portholes,
raccoons washing dinner, patches of ingenuity,
kites, and seal lions appropriating buoys for
their own territory.
I wish the merchants wouldn't try to sell contrived
baskets of shells from some island far away
wrapped in cellophane. Stale salt water taffy
strikes an unnecessary pose as well. It's one of the last
places that doesn't know how to advertise
their obvious assets. Secretive on purpose?
Westport is shabby and worn. It stinks of fish at low tide.
Hallelujah and amen - let it continue to be.
Seagulls are as lazy as rice christians and it seems
they are incapable of hunting because fish guts
abound. But when was the last time
you saw a baby seagull? The remains of a telephone
booth and rotting hulls hide around every corner.
If you go, take your bicycle. The trail along the beach
will lead you to history where you can still climb lighthouse
stairs and touch the brass and glass and stone. Stay
at the
Marina Cottages and wake up early
to a harbor working hard right off your porch -
no posters, no movie set, no props.
Take your camera, aim and shoot for real. Let
the mournful fog horn sounding at regular
intervals at the end of the jetty
guide you.
