Have you ever found your dinghy? — Late last night, after rowing our ten-foot inflatable dinghy two-hundred yards through the surf and boisterous bay of Yelapa, Mexico, we finally arrived at Tally Ho, our moored Nauticat 43 sailboat. …

The one that didn’t get away — The night’s breeze combed the hair from my forehead, tickling its way into the sails, pushing Tally Ho methodically through unseen waves. The inky darkness rendered a calmness over Amber and me, having spent many nights at sea on our forty-three-foot sailboat. It would be our crew’s, Christina, Jack, and…

Because you asked. Harry Hogg — I read all of your scribbles in earnest. I, along with many others, would be happy as a “pig in shit” if I had half of your writing talent, yet, there lurks a sadness, a melancholy note playing low and in the background, like a double bass at the opera…

Never operate a dinghy under the influence of Racilla. — “Oh shit, someone stole the dinghy!” Chava said, tracing circles through his mop of curly black hair. He stood, scanning the horizon for the missing inflatable dinghy, stuck his nose in his armpit, and snorted, “I need a shower.” I rubbed my neck, sighed, and replied, “No one stole the…

The Gods of the sea are in charge — “Cast off the lines and stand by to fend,” I shouted to Amber, my lovely wife of thirty-something years, and Jack, our soon-to-be fisherman extraordinaire. …

The purfect start to a sailing adventure — Sal, Amber, and I poured our sweaty selves from the sticky seats of the airport Uber smack dab into the swirling center of Mexico’s hipster party-goers. “Is it always like this?” Sal questioned with a grin. “Yep!” Amber replied, grabbing my hand, her hips swaying to the music. A twice-yearly…

So shut the fuck up — You don’t know me, where I’m from, or anything about me. My streets are a dull grey-brown, coated with yesterday’s hope. My town reeks of week-old trash mixed with the factory’s oily black soot. The sun casts a hazy shadow; my mood remains dour. …

I finally get it — Is it age — knowing the years past far outnumber my remaining years? Is it the days I’ve wasted and desperately tried to reconcile that push me to make somehow whole? Simple pleasures now magnified tenfold, like the touch of a hand or a warm embrace, bring mist to my…