09/14/2026
To the bow of the boat. Where I go when I need to be not where I am. The blood draw, the pre bed overtired tantrum, the transition to a parent teacher conference after hearing a friend’s most unsettling news. It’s always where I’ve gone for that calm place. The image of an eight your old me at the bow of the sailboat, singing into the wind, in my Limited Too suit, pre Moana Madonna, free. Trusting whoever was at helm (my dad) and whatever the waves would bring under me. A sister next to me or solo. Feeling detached yet secure. At sea but safe. Kind of already understanding how small I was in the scheme of it all, yet not insignificant.
So to the bow I still go. When needed. Even subconsicously. When things get a bit mentally tight or the ER waiting room has smells you’d rather not be smelling. To the bow. The breezy bow.
I never did get to meet my grandfather, the patriarch sailor of the family, the reason why I knew what a bow was at eight years old. The town doctor who couldn’t help but help when stopped around town, even on days off, being asked questions and queries. Before there was the internet and we trusted a source with a heartbeat and degree only (what times!) So to the boat he went for respite and solitude and salt. And although I never overlapped with him on this side of time, this is why legacy, quiet legacy, is so cool and runs so deep. As it lives on.
Even in the littlest, liveliest boys who have his dna and name and thoughtfulness wrapped up in them, learning what a bow is and how to not fight the tide but balance and roll with it. Ups and downs. Rhythms and pulse. To the bow.
