Paddy McIntee, the owner of a shaggy body and b7ull neck, closes bloodshot eyes on hearth and guests, snores through the blackness and cries out in his sleep. Next day I entertain my ego at the brilliant edge of Kinsale Bay, below a star fortress brooding where pincers of land all but touch like a ballerina's fingers in a curved ache of arms. We toast each other in cold champagne. Watery sunshine fizzes on our skin. Clear water laps our table, washed this way by a stately departure of sailors alone by choice.
Hulls gleam like naked bodies.
Discarded silks balloon with gravid grace. We taste salty sweat on the wind, probe filaments of oyster flesh, as yachts pass one by one. On the cliffs of Howth, where Maud Gonne said no to Yeats, I explored seams in the rich mine of their love, finding nuggets of phrase. I met two Dublin boys, well-versed in whys and wherefores, who bought me Guinness and treated me to jambalaya. The taste of the sea on my tongue again, I think of how we raised flags telling us status, position, the minimal communication of mute yachts.