Sometimes they let me steer.
My mind full of the boat’s wake,
how it was always different but always the same,
I’d lean on the tiller and watch the graph-like squiggle that I made.
And then someone shouts JIBE HO, grabs the tiller,
pushes my head down as the boom swings, trims sail,
and points me to a place on the high side of the boat
But moving water still makes me mindful.
And I really never minded being ballast.