An electric sloop eats it path in and out of the swells of a blue, salt-shaking ocean, carving little S’s into its frothy wake, the sun leaks its overture of light onto the scene with eleven eyes staring sharply at the two boys sitting helter-skelter in the wooden cockpit, the day is almost done, the Genoa is writhing in century-old wind, the boat is nearing its destination with stridency… at the top of the hour one boy holds the tiller in his bowing legs, and heaves his coiling lungs into the switch of the abetting breeze, releasing a hallucination into the mind of the other boy who trawls his legs to leeward, in the cool water dotted with jellyfish and small clumps of seaweed—better that this boy knows his dream wildly, and remembers this vision under the sun, he is so similar to his friend—but none like the other, he is now living a quest of spiritual fulfillment of every little creature that runs, swims, or drifts on the blue and green marble that those boys now ride—he is under, and he is singing a song of jubilation for the next sun a day will bring… and the boy humming at the helm looks strangely at his friend so low and so high on the leeward rail… he does not know of the vision (but his release is enchanting) and begins to steer the prow around the head of the breakwater… where surely they will soon be asleep in their beds that soulful night not remembering a thing, their feet so bare as to be cleaned by Jesus…

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