Blog-a-logue

OVERHEARD and GLIMPSED in PASSING

When: Aug. 5, 8:40 AM
Where: Hudson River esplanade
Who: 2 female joggers
Attitude: flat
QuoteUnquote: “I don’t like seeing a naked guy in the shower at 7:10 in the morning.”
*
When: Aug. 3
Where: Washington Square
Who: Businessman on cellphone
Attitude: Amazed
QuoteUnquote: “All his shoes are cheap pressed leather and cost $800 a pair!”
*
When: Aug. 12
Where: 14th Street
Who: middle-aged woman to friend
Attitude: dry
QuoteUnquote: “If I didn’t have my second child I never would have stayed married.”

INTRIGUING GLIMPSES

1. Man and upended racing bike emerging from a Port-o-San
2. Cairn terrier scaling 6-foot stone wall to greet canine friends
3. Man fishing on the North Lawn in Rockefeller Park
4. Wild turkey strolling in Battery Park
5. Summer skies
6. Half moon
7. Full moon

.

.

.

08-08-08

The purpose of this blog is simply to use the 08-08-08 date at 08:08.

Rain Dance

Hazy Sunday morning, North Cove marina. A guy in nautical togs, neither young nor old, leans on a floating gangway. He beckons to the dogs. I see he's from the private pleasure yacht just yonder; yes, he’s chief engineer. I can see a uniformed crew serving breakfast aboard. I assume this man, whose name is Raoul, has been a boatman all his life, but no. For years he’d traded commodities on Wall Street. One day he had a sudden urge to sail. I picture him without his tan, in the frantic din of the Stock Exchange, his face greenish under a maelstrom of ciphers like sharks circling in the glower of a tank. The funny thing, Raoul says, is that he'd never even been on a boat. I don’t blame him for his Ishmaelean sense that it was high time to get to sea. Anyway, Raoul buys a little sailboat and climbs aboard to commence his maiden voyage. With a hand on the unfamiliar tiller, he flips through the manual and reads the instructions for “How to Raise the Sail.” That done, he manages to point his prow toward the Bahamas…. As Raoul speaks, a searing lightning taproot rips above Ellis Island. Thunder wreaks a monumental CRACK! like a ship rent in two. Tracy leaps into my arms. I set her down and bid Raoul goodbye. Another whip-crack of thunder, and the shelties bolt through the downpour like sled huskies. We race for shelter under the Irish Hunger Memorial. Already a miscellany of young families is huddled beneath the irregular overhang. The steely rain intensifies to a shrill, high-volume static, thrumming like piano strings. The adults consult watches, rearrange prams, bounce infants and reconfigure plans. Suddenly, one small girl dashes out into the rain, followed by others. Gleefully they gambol and twirl, using the slick pavement as an impromptu rink for dancing.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HERMAN MELVILLE

Flowerbox

Eye to eye with cornflowers, marigolds, a floral
galaxy of calyxes, flox, constellations of Queen
Anne’s lace, in a flowerbox roped to a rusted rail,
on an old-brick warehouse braced by ancient iron stars.
Far below, an abandoned worksite, narrow grotto of I-
beams, bricks, cinderblocks, sand piles, piles of nails,
of rubble, metal ducts, blue tarps. A yellow scaffold,
Giacometti-like, shifts its composition when I move.
Above: silver minarets, wrapped-wire pendants, beacons
flashing in roiling skies wild as seas, cloud-shrouded
as the grizzled hair of Fates. Skies like an atlas open
to double-spread fractal-frilled coasts, the continents.
Comes the secretive scuttle of rain: hermit-crab patter
on hard coral, the scurry in borrowed shells; plick-plick
tap the crabs fleeing wavelets they call breakers, as
the pocked sand hides tectonic plates ineluctably shifting.
On this railed ledge, on this early dark Sunday, Earth
whirls with stars and meteors, all lost to me watching
water plick-plick on the yarrow, on the globemallow,
on pink blooms of the pollen-studded cosmos.

A Pasture For Gazelles

"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet. " --Kafka

"...I would fall in love with a monkey made of rags. With a plywood squirrel. With a botanical atlas. With an oriole..." -- Czeslaw Milosz

“Do not become bewildered by the surfaces; in the depths, all becomes law.” - Rilke

To be alone
It is a color that
Cannot be named:
This mountain where cedars rise
Into the autumn dusk -- Jakuren, 12th century

"… do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." - Romans 12:2

My heart has become able
To take on all forms.
It is a pasture for gazelles,
For monks, an abbey. -- Ibn ‘Arabi (1165-1240)

"What we take to be our strongest tower of delight, only stands at the caprice of the minutest event - the falling of a leaf, the hearing of a voice, or the receipt of one little bit of paper scratched over with a few small characters by a sharpened feather." -- Melville, Pierre

Vin-Yet

A sudden storm. I duck into an old tavern, with walls of ancient bead-board and yellowed pressed tin. The plank ceiling looks like the deck of a ship. Disoriented by looking up, I’m briefly hanging by my feet from a spar.
.
This dreary Sunday afternoon (my favorite kind), the narrow dining room is empty but for two girls getting tipsy by the window. The silver arc of a car parked out the window unites them in dialogue. The brunette says: “It was raw on the outside and black inside. I mean, raw inside and black outside.” Giddy confusion and gales of laughter. The blonde, though, does most of the talking, twisting up her hair when the check comes. Apparently they’ve complimented the waiter’s flamingo-pink tee shirt, for I overhear him call over his shoulder, as he glides by with their money: “I bought it in 1993, and wear it only one day a year. That would be today. Girls, I’ve gotten so fat, I'm like Elizabeth Taylor squeezed into a dress.”

Freedom to Fear, or Not

“Every man bears the whole stamp of the human condition.” -- Montaigne
~
Sitting on a bench at the marina was a very old lady I’ve been seeing on morning walks. In her compact solitude she seemed like a Zen monk. She held out her arms, when I paused to say hi, and asked me to keep the dogs back. She explained: A dog bit her on a finger in childhood, and her fear of canines is “deep-rooted and innate.” Something in her plight stopped me, and I sat the dogs a little distance away. She went on, “No one understands that I do realize it’s not their dogs, that it’s entirely me. Since that bite, before my teens”--she held up the ancient scar—“I never had a pet, never cared for animals. My fear of them is entrenched and I can do nothing about it.”
~
Sarah is 91. She’s unafraid of death, traveling by herself, or being alone. Her husband died years ago. She has no children. She cultivates no friendships, does not take meals with the other seniors in her elegant “independent and assisted-living” apartment house. I asked how she spent her time. “I get up at 6, go for a long walk, and let the day unfold as it will.” To which I said, “It sounds like a nice, free life.”
~
She’d lived a full life, of work and travel all over the world. But not to Australia, she amended, which, being a “new country,” never appealed to her. She preferred old countries like Greece. Was there any place she regretted not getting to? “Africa,” she said, surprisingly, “because of the animals.” I teased: “You’re not afraid of lions and elephants, but you’re afraid of dogs?” She smiled: “I wanted to see the animals. Just see them.”
~
Meanwhile, Caleb and Tracy were sitting very still, watching the old lady gently. “They seem docile enough,” she said, and apologized again for her aversion. She thanked me for not cajoling her to pet them, as well-meaning people always did, to help her overcome her dread through their harmless pets. I said, “You’re free, aren’t you, to stay afraid. We all protect our phobias. One of my biggest is driving. At 15, I chose never to drive. But there’s another Freedom--larger and deeper, which is freedom from fear itself, which overrides our peculiar little tendencies and preferences. I intuit that inner Freedom, but I’m not ready either to give up my fears for it. Not yet.”
~
Sarah looked at the waiting dogs. “Thank you,” she finally said, understanding. “Maybe, if I see you again sometime, I’ll let your dogs come closer. But it might take me the rest of my life to touch them.”

Slipping Glimpsers, Loafers & Dingledodies

“We must reserve a back shop all our own, entirely free, in which to establish our real liberty and our principal retreat and solitude.” – Michel de Montaigne
~
“All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)” --Gerard Manley Hopkins
~
“Be out of sync with your times for just one day, and you will see how much eternity you contain within yourself.” – Rainer Maria Rilke [cf. Whitman, “I loafe and invite my soul.”]
~
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” Emerson
~
“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)” -- Whitman
~
“In life, never do as others do…. either do nothing, just go to school, or do something nobody else does.” --Gurdjieff’s grandmother to him, on her deathbed. -- Beelzebub’s Tales to His Grandson
~
“But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes “Awww!” – Jack Kerouac
~
“Y’know the real world, this so-called real world,
It’s just something you put up with, like everybody else.
I’m in my element when I am a little bit out of this world.
Then I’m in the real world – I’m on the beam.
Because when I’m falling, I’m doing all right;
When I’m slipping, I say, hey, this is interesting!
It’s not when I’m standing upright that bothers me;
I’m not doing so good; I’m stiff.
As a matter of fact, I’m really slipping
Most of the time, into that glimpse.
I’m like a slipping glimpser.
--Willem de Kooning

SOLSTICE

Just past 8:00 a.m. by the Colgate Clock, across the Hudson in Jersey City, easily readable because the octogenarian timepiece is fifty feet in diameter.

This morning, on the first full day of summer, the river is glassy, quiescent, dimpled like cellulite. Its pattern is deceptively simple, etched with thumbprint whorls and nearly invisible rings that come and go, imminent and transcendent, from surfacing fish or unseen insects or something else.

In the distance: a barge with a tug, like a nuzzling cow and calf.

At the North Cove marina, the Ventura is about to leave for a trip up the Hudson, to Tarrytown. On the floating gangway, Patrick (“Captain Pat”) Harris, the owner of the sloop, comes over to pet the dogs.

He says people can bring their pets for a sail anytime, for an extra dollar each (www.sailnewyork.com, 212-786-1204). Why leave the family at home? he smiles. With all his passengers aboard, he returns to the yacht and the boat casts off.

As the Ventura slides out of the marina, a mate at the bow blows on a conch, the most archangelic sound.

The Artful Dodger

"Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius."

-- William Blake

Went to an art opening the other night in Soho, a respectable show of tasteful paintings, pleasant, well crafted, glib. The kind of art that does brilliantly over a leather couch in a magazine spread. I left and walked east, to Elizabeth Street where north of Prince is a storefront with a miniature of itself in the window.

I went on to the Lower East Side, to the next opening, at the Cake Shop on Ludlow. In that window, a plastic lawn-deer (wearing a black wig) basked on a collection of superannuated cassette tapes arranged like floor tiles. Inside, paintings of interiors, by my young friend Sophie, hung across a long wall from front to back. Her palette was disciplined, quirkily somber, the perspectives experimental. No easy solutions here, no glibness; the work caught you unawares, like a shivery glance askance. I admire such authenticity, poetry versus product, like a twist in a ribbon, a skip in a song, a chip in china or a rhyme got wrong.
+
From a dour guy in black glasses I bought some cold green tea. I hung out in the back near a large window with a view into an empty courtyard. The crowd, two generations younger than me, was not looking at the art. Some of the boys emoted lonely uncertainty. The confident ones with dates all had a hand on a female knee. Two oblivious fellows typed on laptops side-by-side. Their faces glowed like luminous dials in the glare of their screens. At a teensy table an obese girl exuberantly nibbled the point of a triangular slice. I put in my earplugs and mentally critiqued the paintings. Half an hour passed and no Sophie. The din trumped my earplugs. I left this spectacle for the jammed streets.
+
A chalkboard sign at a bar on the Bowery beckoned: “Happy Hour. Have a Night You’re Sure Not to Remember.” Soon I came to the New Museum, open tonight late and free. The chartreuse-green elevator was enormous, as most museum elevators are. Its two stainless steel doors mirrored and multiplied the occupants like Alex Katz cutouts at a cocktail party. The art in the white spacious galleries was largely multimedia, irreverent and coy–but nothing I hadn’t seen before. Less interesting, I thought, than the incidental rooftop views beyond the strangely narrow corridors and stairs.

A Newborn Ferry Terminal

Early this morning, across from the World Financial Center, I was startled to see a brand new, partially constructed, glass-gabled, cathedral-regal ferry terminal being coaxed into place by two large tugboats, a red and an orange, while a little white-and-blue Push Tug stood by, aft of a barge, rather like an observant midwife. Conceived in Louisiana, the ferry had been floated over from Brooklyn, only a few hours before. As part of the berthing process, there were a couple of immense barges, like inert brown sea cows, whose hodgepodges of barge-clutter--domes, cylinders, spheres, wheels, rectangles, trusses, rope-loops, etc.--resembled the standards of Precisionist iconography.
~

~
The little Push Tug was so close to the railing at the esplanade that I could talk with the captain as if gabbing with a neighbor over a picket fence. I seized the chance to ask about something I should have resolved before my parents died. Had he ever heard of a “Tracy Tug"? “No," he replied, "not specifically; but it might be the name of one of the old-fashioned McAllister tugs, like the one at Pier 17. They all had girls’ names." I said, “While my mother was in the hospital, waiting for me to be born, she said she watched the Tracy tugs from her window, trawling up and down the Hudson. She became so fond of them that she considered naming me Tracy. I never thought to ask her more about it, and I’ve not been able to find any reference to Tracy Tugs. Anyway, it’s a moot point, because after all that, she named me Jane.” The tugboat captain gestured with an elaborately tattooed arm and said, “Well, now, that’s this tug’s name. Her name is Jane.”
~
(But spelled Jayne.)

Only In New York?

When: May 17, 2008
Where: Hudson River esplanade
Who: woman in group
Attitude: neutral
QuoteUnquote: “He won a medal before he died, but never put it on his ribbon bar.”
*
When: May 23, 2008
Where: Clark St. Station, Brooklyn
Who: Old man to his old wife
Attitude: Chagrined
QuoteUnquote: “I picked up the check by accident.”
*
When: May 29, 2008
Where: Near the river
Who: woman with large dogs
Attitude: Frustrated, unable to control their jumping
QuoteUnquote: “Bad dog! Sit! Sit! I’m the alpha, not you!”
Commentary: (Yeah, right.)
*
When: A while back.
Where: Somewhere downtown
Who: One small boy to another
Attitude: Matter-of-fact
QuoteUnquote: “When you’re ten, you become a pre-teen.”
*
When: June 4, 2008
Where: Central Park West and 79th St.
Who: Two girls.
QuoteUnquote: Girl A: “I know you don’t like taxidermy.”
Girl B: “I think I’m getting over some of my taxidermy issues.”
~
When: June 7, 2008
Where: Starbucks, on Broadway near Walker
Who: One barrista to another
QuoteUnquote: "They give us workers free therapy because this job makes everyone crazy."
~~

]]>

Flying DUMBO

View from St. Ann's Warehouse

It was only a 15-minute trip via subway to the wonderfully strange province beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, designated as "Down Under the Manhattan Brooklyn Overpass (DUMBO)." Since it happened to be the Bridge's 125th birthday, I probably should have walked across, to St. Ann's Warehouse, which is under the bridge on the Brooklyn side. I went to St. Ann's to install two of my miniature opera sets ("Papageno's Nest," from the Magic Flute series; and "Turandot" from the Puccini opera) in the Temporary Toy Theater Museum.

"Papageno's Nest"

"Turandot"

In the hangar-like space at the Warehouse, quite a few artists were already at work on dozens of charming microcosms. My own dioramas, rescued from long stints in storage, had been picked up from my studio the day before and delivered to the Toy Theater Festival site. "Turandot" was literally in pieces; I had to reassemble much of the Ice Princess's palace, and reattach the princely decapitated heads on their spikes. Such fun.

Afterward, on the way back to the subway, I was delighted to see, in a foliate, offhand plot beneath the rumbling Bridge, another miniature theater, which synchronistically echoed my "Papageno's Nest." Someone had installed a bird-feeder made from a half-pint milk container, complete with a drinking-straw perch.

A miniature at large

"A Fish Tale" with 327 (or so) Nautical Terms

Lots of boats are on the rivers this weekend to celebrate Memorial Day. Life at sea is memorialized in many common English expressions. Can you identify the 327 nautical terms in the following fish tale? (The words are listed at the end: click on "continue reading.")
~

I’m a little under the weather, feeling blue, experiencing waves of nausea. Maybe I should see a doctor for a clean bill of health. Maybe I should quarantine myself. Sorry, I don’t mean to gripe so much, or let the cat out of the bag, but I want to deflect any scuttlebutt. Let me tell you what happened. I’m not spinning a yarn here; I’ve written it down in my logbook. And in this blog, a term that's short for the neologism "weblog."
~
The bigwig boss, who at first was aloof and even snubbed me, suddenly turned cranky while I was on my watch. One day he barged in and, with an undercurrent of hostility, accused me of being a fly-by-night and a flake. Hey, I never flake out. When he told me "welcome aboard," I thought him first-rate, but now apparently he was showing his true colors.
~
He lowered the boom and squalled: “We were short-handed. I hired you as my mainstay. But you’re no great shakes, you’re a mere figurehead. You're deadwood." His voice shrieked like a siren. "You’ve overreached your bounds. And, you son of a gun, I’ve done a tally and find you’ve rigged the books, fudged the figures, and dipped into the slush fund. You fouled up, crossed the line. Holy mackerel! I run a tight ship! There’s no room for skylarking in this company. You’re all washed up! Do you catch my drift? Shape up or ship out. I’ve a good mind to jettison you. In fact, you’re fired. Now, you roustabout, shove off!” He looked ready to give me a flogging; I braced myself for a smack. We were at a standoff, but I managed to retort, "Hell's bells! Tell it to the marines!" before he steered me to the door.
~
Overwhelmed and taken aback in the wake of his bilge, I sensed I was on the rocks, since he would give me no quarter. But why? There wasn’t a glimmer of truth to his accusations. It was he who’d pressed me into service, to salvage his floundering, foundering, jury-rigged office, which was known to be in the drink. Maybe I’d misread the garbled hodgepodge of the dressing down he gave me.
~
Just as I was thinking that one halcyon day I’d overhaul, dismantle and plumb the depths of everything he’d said, like a loose cannon, in his overbearing way, he swept into the room and, looming above me, let fly: “You’re a galoot, you dirty dog, an albatross around my neck! You have the devil to pay!” I edged away from him protesting wishy-washily: “Now, don’t go overboard, Skipper; please don’t get carried away.” But no way could I stem the tide of his temper. I felt adrift. He seemed to be having a field day with me. I had no clue as to why we got into this flap, since I’ve been aboveboard, A-1 from stem to stern. After all, we were in the same boat, working in close quarters. Now, having run the gauntlet, I determined to grin and bear it. Somehow I’d weather the storm.
~
The job, in the offing, had seemed a good deal. For a long time I’d been at loose ends. After weeks of casting about and trolling for work, by a fluke I found this gig. It would be my maiden voyage, as far as employment went, and a bonanza at that. The only other trades I'd ever considered were as a pilot and working on a caboose, but they didn't jibe. I procrastinated for a while, afraid of being landlocked in an office job, which might turn out to be like boot camp. I spent some time making lanyards. But, as they say, time and tide wait for no man. Fearing to miss the boat, I told myself to fish or cut bait. I couldn't hold on too long to my knockabout life. I decided to brace up, shake a leg and tackle the job, because off and on, ever since I was a little nipper, I’ve been scraping the barrel, always hard up. This job was opportune; it would be a lifeline, and would keep me afloat. In desperation, I took it: any port in a storm.
~
Having been a drifter and an idler, I looked somewhat derelict, so I tidied up, became mainstream, got a crewcut and trimmed my beard to look less sloppy. I dressed to the nines in a pea coat, a blazer, bell-bottom dungarees, navy-blue Dockers, a watchcap, and deck-gray Topsiders. I stowed everything in a bulky duffel under my bunk, including a hammock and a packet of lifesavers. Now that I fit the bill, I was ready to launch this career. Every morning, eager to embark on my new adventure, I would rise and shine and get cracking. I felt footloose and fancy free with the ballast of a steady income. I was gung-ho for this windfall with all its perks. I imagined making money hand over fist. Maybe I'd make governor one day. I imagined cruising toward a whale of a retirement. I was hooked.
~
At the office, I handled all the flotsam and jetsum, even though I wasn’t hired as a flunky. In fact, I was listed on the masthead. My office was aloft in a posh, flagship skyscraper. I swabbed the decks, kept things spic and span and shipshape. I even proofread the galleys. When my boss took me to lunch, I insisted we go Dutch. We usually shared a submarine sandwich of turtle, marinated with rosemary.
~
Gradually I learned the ropes, began to know the lay of the land, kept abreast of things, got wind of the loopholes and the jargon for all the gadgets and gizmos involved, and truly believed I was making headway. It was all hunky-dorey, and I was happy as a babe in a pram. Happy as a clam.
~
So I couldn’t fathom why he’d change course so suddenly and take the wind out of my sails. Here we were, at loggerheads. He came at me like a maelstrom. I felt not only thwarted, but walloped. He was rubbing salt in my wounds. How could I salvage my job? What a stick in the mud, I thought angrily. Then it was my turn to sound off. I told him to stand off, pipe down and keep his shirt on. But when he went after me, bearing down in hot pursuit, I almost keeled over and hit the deck. I careened away from his hulking presence–did I mention he’s rather broad in the beam, with skin like scurvy and a nose like a rostrum? I just cut and ran. By and large, I’ve been bamboozled, hijacked and shanghaied. The job has become a no man’s land. For a while it had been touch and go, before I got my sea legs, and success seemed like a long shot, but I thought I’d passed muster with flying colors. I thought I'd become a beacon to him. So why would he want to deep-six me?
~
Just when I was over a barrel, there was an unexpected sea change that put a new slant on things. He seemed to re-channel his opinion, as if he’d turned a blind eye to my alleged shortcomings. I had no idea where he hailed from when he asked me to return. “Now you’re talkin’,” I said, becalmed, but I bit the bullet and zig-zagged back to his office again. There we chewed the fat and seemed to get squared away. At last, with a lopsided grin, he said, “Well, carry on.” I was taken aback with this plain-sailing attitude. I had thought it was the bitter end, but maybe he’d prove to be an old salt after all. “Aye, aye, sir,” I said with flimsy humor, adding, “but I wish you’d cut me some slack.” To which he replied, “Don’t hand me a line.”
~
To possibly explain his reversal, there’d been a ground swell in the company. He had no recourse but to take another tack, and toggle back toward a show of civility. But I wondered if the coast was clear. Was this the calm before a storm? I was all at sea, and half wanted to bail out to avoid being taken down a peg or two again. Although I knew I was still in his black book, and that my progress was certainly choppy, I vowed to stay, come hell or high water, but kept a weather eye open in case he flared up, tried to pull a fast one, or gave me the old heave-ho.
~
For some time, he left me high and dry. In fact, we were like two ships that pass in the night. I interpreted this renewed indifference as his way of giving me leeway. But, had we cleared the deck? Were his jibes over? Were we on an even keel? I still felt like his whipping boy. I was careful not to rock the boat and continued to give him a wide berth. I minded my ps and qs, just in case he still harbored resentment. To fend off the possibility of being stranded and marooned, if scuppered, I battened down the hatches. I practically lashed myself to my deck chair, up in the crow's nest. I sure didn’t want to be put through the hoops again. I would have done anything to stave off his wrath, as well as unemployment. So I toed the line. Swamped with work, I stayed anchored hard and fast to my desk. My antenna was up. I was far from coasting, always ready to scuttle off, even as I tried to go with the flow.
~~~
Three months have passed. You might wonder how I’m bearing up. Truth is, I feel I'm between the devil and the deep blue sea. I’m ready to jump ship. Why? The job turned out to be a washout. I feel dead in the water. I’m pooped, in the doldrums, listless and at loose ends. It’s time to forge ahead. I need to make a clean sweep, start over with a clean slate. I feel I’ve missed the mark. To buoy myself up, get my bearings, get underway again, first I’m going out for a cup of Joe, preferably Starbucks. Maybe I’ll splice the main brace and get good and groggy. Yes, right down the hatch, three sheets to the wind. I’ll also have a square meal. Then, when I’m chock-full of food and water-logged with booze, I’ll go to a rummage sale looking for junk, and maybe binge on the whole nine yards.
~

__________________________________
∑ According to Vance Broad, Chief Sailing Instructor of the Mumbles Sailing School of Swansea, Wales, “tidy” comes from “tides,” and “stranded” comes from “strand,” the Dutch word for “beach.”

∑ According to wordsmith.org/awad, “jettison” and jetsum” are linked. Rostrum, meaning dais or pulpit, comes from a prow that projects like a beak.

∑ Other words come from Everything I Wanted to Know About: Nautical Terms, Sailing Dictionary, & Boating Glossary by Captain Peter W. Damisch, http://www.bluewatersailing.com/expressions.php, such as for phrases such as “all in a day’s work,” “all sewn up,” “armed to the teeth,” “bonanza,” “born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” “brought up short,” “deadwood,” “dirty dog,” “faux paus,” “galoot,” “great guns,” “hard up,” “hell’s bells,” “Johnny come lately,” “knock off,” “laid up,” “landmark,” “maelstrom,” “make both ends meet,” “pigeonhole,” “real McCoy,” “teetotaler,” hundreds more.

∑ http:the3rdcolumn.blogspot.com/2006/05/gibbons-burkes-compilation-of-nautical

∑ According to www.redskyatnight.com, blazer comes from the jackets the sailors wore on the HMS Blazer. A clew (or clue) is part of a sail; it also refers to evidence leading to the discovery of a missing sail. Glimmer comes from “glim,” which is a sailor’s term for any kind of light. “Binge” refers to a sailor cleaning out a rum cask and getting drunk.

∑ According to fotthewuk.co.uk, “swept into the room” refers to oars called “sweeps.” “Hold on too long” refers to shortening a sail too late.

∑ According to the Online Etymological Dictionary, “opportune” is from the Latin for “favorable,” as in winds, from “ob portum veniens, “coming toward a port.” “Marinate” is from the French mariner: to pickle in sea brine. “Rosemary” is from rosmarine, meaning “dew of the sea.” “Bulk,” orig., “a ship’s cargo” (1440). “Bar,” bank of sand across a harbor obstructing navigation (1586). “Deck,” from verdeck, a nautical word meaning to cover as with a roof (1466). The original meaning of “caboose” was nautical (1747), from German kabhuse: a wooden cabin on a ship’s deck; train usage from 1861. “Roustabout” (1868) is a deckhand or wharf worker. “Siren” is a sea nymph who lures sailors to their destruction (1366). Its use as a warning device derives from steamboats (1879). The printing term “galleys” is from the oblong type-tray that resembled a low flat boat called a galley. “Garble” is the illegal act of mixing garbage with cargo. “Steer” comes from steuro (rudder) and is related to starboard. “Govern” meant “steer a ship” (1297). “Splice” (1524), a sailor’s word meaning to split. Now it means the opposite, to join. “Hammock” (1555) is Haitian for fish nets. “Pilot,” from the Greek for helmsman (1512). “Antenna” (1646) comes from “sail yard.”

∑ The best website I found, with hundreds of etymological entries, is see-the-sea.org.

∑ A good source of sailor-jargon is Royce’s Sailing Illustrated, Vol. 1: Tall Ship Edition.

]]> fish story
under the weather
feeling blue
waves
nausea
clean bill of health
quarantine
gripe
let the cat out of the bag
scuttlebutt
spinning a yarn
log
bigwig
aloof
snub
cranky
on my watch
barge in
undercurrent
fly-by-night
flake
flake out
welcome aboard
first-rate
show his true colors
lower the boom
squall
short-handed
mainstay
no great shakes
figurehead
deadwood
overreach
siren
son of a gun
tally
rigged
fudge
dip
slush fund
foul up
cross the line
holy mackerel
run a tight ship
skylarking
all washed up
catch my drift
shape up or ship out
jettison
roustabout
shove off
flogging
smack
standoff
hell's bells
Tell it to the marines
steer
overwhelm
taken aback
in the wake
bilge
on the rocks
give no quarter
glimmer
press into service
founder
jury-rigged
in the drink
garbled
hodgepodge
dressing down
halcyon days
overhaul
dismantle
plumb the depths
loose cannon
overbearing
sweep into the room
looming
let fly
dirty dog
galoot
albatross around my neck
the devil to pay
edge away
wishy-washy
go overboard
skipper
get carried away
stem the tide
adrift
field day
clue
flap
aboveboard
A-1
from stem to stern
in the same boat
in close quarters
run the gauntlet
grin and bear it
weather the storm
in the offing
a good deal
at loose ends
casting about
trolling
fluke
gig
maiden voyage
bonanza
pilot
caboose
jibe
landlocked
boot camp
lanyard
time and tide wait for no man
miss the boat
fish or cut bait
hold on too long
knockabout
brace up
shake a leg
tackle
off and on
nipper
scraping the barrel
opportune
lifeline
afloat
any port in a storm
drifter
idler
derelict
tidy
mainstream
crewcut
trim
sloppy
dress to the nines
pea coat
blazer
bell-bottoms
dungarees
navy-blue
dockers
watchcap
deck-gray
topsiders
stow
bulk, bulky
duffel
bunk
hammock
packet
lifesavers
fit the bill
rise and shine
get cracking
footloose and fancy free
ballast
gung-ho
windfall
perks
hand over fist
govern, governor
cruising
a whale of
hooked
flotsam and jetsum
flunky
masthead
aloft
posh
flagship
skyscraper
swab the deck
spic and span
shipshape
galleys (as in printing)
go Dutch
submarine sandwich
turtle
marinate
rosemary
learn the ropes
know the lay of the land
keep abreast
loopholes
trade
gadget
gizmo
make headway
hunky-dorey
pram
fathom
change course
take the wind out of my sails
at loggerheads
maelstrom
thwart
wallop
rub salt in my wounds
salvage
stick in the mud
sound off
stand off
pipe down
keep your shirt on
bear down
hot pursuit
keel over
hit the deck
careen
hulk, hulking
broad in the beam
scurvy
rostrum
cut and run
by and large
bamboozle
hijack
shanghai
no man's land
touch and go
sea legs
long shot
flying colors
beacon
deep six
over a barrel
sea change
put a new slant on things
channel
turn a blind eye
hail from
Now you're talkin'!
becalmed
bite the bullet
zig-zag
chew the fat
get squared away
lopsided
carry on
taken aback
plain-sailing
bitter end
old salt
aye, aye sir
flimsy
cut me some slack
hand me a line
ground swell
another tack
toggle
coast is clear
calm before a storm
all at sea
bail out
take down a peg or two
black book
choppy
come hell or high water
keep a weather eye open
flare up
pull a fast one
heave-ho
high and dry
two ships that pass in the night
leeway
clear the deck
jibes
even keel
whipping boy
rock the boat
give a wide berth
mind your ps and qs
harbor
fend off
stranded
marooned
scupper
batten down the hatches
lash
crow's nest
launch
embark
put through the hoops
stave off
toe the line
swamped
anchored
hard and fast
antenna
coasting
scuttle
go with the flow
bearing up
between the devil and the deep blue sea
jump ship
washout
dead in the water
pooped
in the doldrums
listless
loose ends
forge ahead
make a clean sweep
start over with a clean slate
miss the mark
buoy up
get one's bearings
get underway
cup of Joe
Starbucks
splice the main brace
grog, groggy
down the hatch
three sheets to the wind
square meal
chock-full (or chock-a-block)
water-logged
rummage sale
junk
binge
the whole nine yards

~
Besides the sites listed at the end of the story, here are other websites I consulted:
networdblog.blogspot.com
sailorschoice.com
history.navy.mil/trivia
swmaritime.org.uk
fotthewuk.co.uk
fortogden.com/nauticalterms
navy.mil/navydata/traditions
phrases.org.uk/meanings
sailorschoice.com/terms/scphrases
brianberlin.net/nautical_phrases
io.cm/~gibbonsb/words.words.words
etymonine.com