Dick Claffee photo
By Norma Paul
Whenever I look back in disbelief
of all that went on back then
it always catches me by surprise,
that one day in August
in the little two-masted dinghy,
on the bay, for instance,
the way I learned to lean into the wind,
pulling on the jib as we changed direction,
how we began on the east side of
Barnegat Bay and landed on the west,
pulling up on the white sandy spit,
laughing the hair out of our eyes,
falling back against the sand
to stare up at the deep blue overhead,
how it’s become imprinted like forever
whenever a sky of blue sifts down.
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