The clapper clanged the bright sound of three bells during the
morning watch as the first mate yelled, "Weigh Anchor."
Every seaman, after a fortnight in port, was eager to see the sun rising
and waves cresting against the bow, causing the salty mist to spray up.

The captain rubbed his aging St. Brendan medal,
captain easing the deep drafted schooner past the narrow
breakwaters into the open waters.
A medallion that his misses had hung around his neck many
moons ago, always praying, time and again, for safe passage.

The eight-man crew had stowed and had choc-a-blocked
the two hundred tons of cargo, and it was time for the fore and aft
canvas to be hoisted on this Brigantine, the Sea Angel, rightly named.

This crew had enjoyed fair winds and following seas over many a voyage.
The wise captain had never been caught in open waters that would
put his ship or crew in the hands of the devil
nor risk sinking to the bottom of the deep blue sea.

Across the port side, the barrelman saw the beacon shine its light
bouncing off the waves as he located a school of dolphins coursing
alongside a league or so before they disappeared from view.
The ship's company picked up the steady rhythm of the vessel
slicing through the waves all squared away, fully underway.