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(From a painting by marine artist Peter Rogers)
The boats sit at Aveiro by the river's mouth, their
bows scattered as compass points, small scoops on an interminable
huge sea rising to the ever-imagined yet illumined line of sight
where the gallant Genovese fell off the known world. They are not
deserted, though faintly cold for oarsmen who walk down this beach
behind me, stomachs piqued and perched with wine, salted hands still
warm with women, mouths rich with memory and signals. And sons are
left who later come down this beach to these small boats topping
the Atlantic, gunnels only bare inches from the Father of Oceans,
coursed to the stalked anchorage by a thin rope and a night of tidal
pull. At Aveiro I stand between commotion and the other, silence;
inhaling spills of olla podridas riding the ocean air with a taut
ripeness, early bath scents, night's wet mountings and varieties
peeled and scattered to dawn, and see boats move the way the sea
and earth move against a distant cloud. I question the hammer and
the swift arc that drove the raw poles of their moorings into the
sea floor. I picture a mustachioed Latin god laughing at his day's
work while waving to a woman on the strand; and see her, urged from
bed or kitchen, in clothing gray and somber, near electric in her
movement and scale of mystery, eye the god eye to eye. Such is the
mastery of eyes. The artist tells us what is missing is important.
Inland, before dawn hits, an oarsman knows an old callus where the
Atlantic sends swift messages, for up through the toss of heel and
calf, through the thew of thigh and spinal matter, radiant in his
miles of nerves, these small boats gathered at Aveiro speak of their
loneliness.
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small boats at aveiro
tom sheehan
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