Sailing sailing....

This lad's father, Mr. H. Cook, ran a fish store here in Greenport and this is his son, H. Cook Jr. or so the photo is labeled. We are guessing  1910 or so but who would know.  Not a water skier in sight.

We are trying to figure out exactly where this picture is set - obviously Shelter Island is in the background and the boathouse and loading docks to the right don't give much of a clue as we found in looking at other pictures of the area; we can't quite place it although one hunch is near where the Ferry lands now. Just not enough clues but we are betting that is Derring Harbor back there.

The model boat is pretty amazing and hardly a toy but a labor of love that took weeks if not months to produce.

Next Memorial Day, Greenport Harbor might be visited by some Tall Ships - the real deals and they will be available for "play" but perhaps not as much boyish fun as Mr. Cook Jr. might be enjoying.  The end, however, will be the same...adults looking at magical wind driven ships and instant flashes of imagination with pictures of wind blowing over rushing waves, foam, snapping sails and the creak and groan of taught lines.

Dialogues

Irene swung by here the other day. She overstayed her welcome and had enough spit and vinegar in her to make us respectful. Amid the branches and cannonball leaves shooting across the lawns, there was the wind and the sea and we don't use the term "among" lightly. A hundred yards from the tide wasn't far enough to keep from being glazed in salt water and, those foolish enough to go take a close look, had a slick coating of salt for our trouble.

Some sailing stories talk about big storms and that the air above the water seems to turn into some sort of vaporous mix, neither air nor water but...well..."wairter" for want of a better term. We are pretty much of the opinion that the sea is doing its wave thing, the air is doing its blowing thing, and there - just over the top or at the bottom depending on your perspective - is where the action is...where air and water talk to each other.

Logic makes us believe that water doesn't really talk with wind any more than a rock converses with a tree. But what of this logic? In a conversation with a grand daughter we decided that full moons are merely folks gathered in the sky at night to look at the fireflies down here and that stars weren't stars at all but merely fireflies who flew too high, got lonely, and "flashed" so their friends could find them. Absolutely without logic and as they say about our politicians, "the truth isn't in 'em".

But these dreams, these illogical potentials, are actually compelling bits of fancy. We would, in fact, be better off if we put aside the fact that they weren't real or possible but simply pleasant imaginaries that 1. do no harm and 2. produce some terrific realizations ...