Anchor Walk.

ANCHOR WALK

   The foremast tunnels into the white
   wall of fog, radar our only eye--
   a thousand green pixels ornament
   the screen: gill-netters, tenders,
   and processing platforms so dense
   they echo like a strip of land.

   The unseen
   tug in tow idles abeam, seeking anchorage;
   bowers taut, cables bitted and boused to.
   The almanac warns mariners:
   permit a generous scope of chain,
   anchors are sure to walk Kvichak Bay.

   The night watch monitors with unease
   as an unpropulsioned rig
   drags anchor, then holds, then drags
   again in the confluence,
   contrasting current and flood:
   speed: 5 knots, range: 400 yards.
   The night mate hails the rogue barge,
   the engine room crew musters
   (spilled coffee and poker cards).
   "Start the mains! We gotta move, now!"
   Great o-rings recoil, eight thousand horsepower
   shudders at full, rudder hard a starboard,
   cavitation astern, hawse pipe
   and anchor windlass grind
   as the vessel pivots
   too slow.

   Off port quarter, a masthead light looming.
   Range: one tenth of a mile. Speed: 8 knots.
   Foghorns call.
   Darkness bearing down.
   Portholes. Bulging eyes.
   A sudden jolt, bracing arms.
   The ship heels over as the barge
   plies the bulkhead just above the waterline.
   Half-inch steel opens like a can,
   Main Deck stove in at cabin 109.
   Two shipmates shake from their sleep,
   but a third, overwhelmed by fatigue,
   snores on and fails to rise,
   the bull nose nudging his bed sheets.