childhood

The pine tar mixes a fragrant potion as cold salt sea seeps between the planks, and the oars rhythmically rattle and splash, rattle and splash, tracing circles that at their pinnacle send a cold spray across my face as beads of aromatic water are whisked into the air by the cool damp breeze that smells faintly of fish and fog, metal tackle rattles against the mast of a harbored boat as it gently rocks in the tide, mackerel destined for the dinner table flop about between my father's feet as he rows, rattle and splash, rattle and splash, childlike wonder of ocean's icy majesty yields to blissful certainty of cozy warm cabin and my memories begin to smell like blueberry pie.