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MILLER'S COVE The paint was peeling on the side of the boat a sloughing snake of shattered skin blister flakes and bulk abandoned standing lonely in the corner away from sleeker sloops with still life left for they were fiberglass glistening, haughty shouting promise gloating glory bright and boasting winner's cups for laps around the cape or lesser lengths ... hollow heroes brimming bilge of beautiful memories drawn in sand and whipping waves and praised in champagne paeans, taunts of latest triumph trumpet from the gleaming chrome. No halo for the corner hulk for only pigeons bless her now not even real birds of blue deep the gulls ignore and Gus is gone, the last to care for Cara Mia, keeper of her constant vigil; two were there to share her soul til Miller left his name, alone and Gus to tend her spirit flame before his own to darkness came And there she sits amid the hollow whores, the contrast most complete: a graceful lady's honor undiminished, firm in folly's flock of giddy girls 2 For Gus knew Miller well and Miller knew the lady like a lover but not the easy knowledge of a giddy girl, for there was more to ladies, Miller knew, especially this one, product of the prouder Past, to beckon bold achievements built in brigantine and frigate bond a lost tradition lately told in Taiwan teak of mizzen bold ... of crude and valiant former day and beards of black or blue or grey, of measures lost and treasures won by fight or sleight and damage done, of toils and spoils through tools of trade and beggars in the bargain made, increasing coffers of the few to paint themselves in pirate hue and to the victor, violent gain and legacy's inhuman name. She was the child of that memory, cast in singular prestige in its wake and heiress to its monstrous glory bequeathed, at least, from certain substance. She felt the blood of Roman pride for it was her bond, her wood, the fibers of her being. Those hands who shaped and made her were the mirror of the Roman fleet and images of early hands intent to render glory's feat. The Cara Mia had no twin -- a bastard child but proud -- for she was crafted from the vision of Florentine esteem by one Giuseppe' Sertes, who was loud, and pompous, and full of life, which traits became the lady's. 3 All hands who once had sailed her held a bond uncommon to those of lesser craft for she was a saint -- Ernesto would say, or a guardian -- Philippe, or the Holy Virgin, herself -- Fabiano, for all had known the most miserable nights imaginable on her watch, those unmerciful storms of challenge unmet by ships of smaller status. And, still, Cara Mia prevailed. No terror of the tempest, no onslaught of the constant crashing could ever reduce her to oblivion. Maybe he was right -- Fabiano. Perhaps this was a blessed ship and all who sailed her sacrosanct ... for wasn't Emilio drowned and brought to life back on her deck? And didn't Ernesto catch the first of hundreds when strange calm took Cara Mia and suddenly, with no food for two days, the schools appeared, relentless? She was a magnet of luck, said those Italians, whose grandchildren relayed the tale, those times when common sense and common occurrence would surely never predict what this Roman queen assured with easy grace. Yet Cara Mia continued, through the generations, giving equally despite the decades to one family upon the last, father to son, and to his own, and endless on until today, where the gracious lady sits, out of her element, drained of use, of purpose, perched upon uncaring stilts to pose as prey for the elements. 4 Though none will now hear, her lesson merely flotsam on the tide of Time, the Cara Mia speaks volumes of an ancient passion, dusty jewel of nobler setting, lost among the giddy girls of Miller's Cove.
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