OLD BOATS 229 



> 

 Sound. Still are the white steamers by the wharves, 



where once the gang planks shook with the tread of 

 feet and the rumble of baggage trucks. Many a time, 

 as the train paused at the station, I have watched the 

 black stacks for some hint of smoke, hoping against 

 hope that I should see the old ship move, and turn, and 

 go about her rightful seafaring. But it was never to 

 be. There were only ghosts in engine room and pilot 

 house. Like the abandoned dwelling on the upland 

 road to Monterey, these steamers were mute witnesses 

 to a vanished order. But always as the train pulled 

 out from the station I sat on the rear platform and 

 watched the white town and the white steamers and 

 the glassy harbour slip backward into the haze and 

 it seemed as if that haze was the gentle breath of 

 oblivion. 



I live inland now, far from the smell of salt water 

 and the sight of sails. Yet sometimes there comes 

 over me a longing for the sea as irresistible as the lust 

 for salt which stampedes the reindeer of the north. 

 I must gaze on the unbroken world-rim, I must feel 

 the sting of spray, I must hear the rhythmic crash and 

 roar of breakers and watch the sea-weed rise and fall 

 where the green waves lift against the rocks. Once in 

 so often I must ride those waves with cleated sheet 

 and tugging tiller, and hear the soft hissing song of the 

 water on the rail. And "my day of mercy" is not com- 

 plete till I have seen some old boat, her seafaring done, 



