Salvage from the Sea

My Dad and I were on a long working dock in Southwest Harbor, Maine...when we looked down and saw this buoy nestled in some rocks. I spoke first. "I think I'll go get that buoy."

Dad replied..."I was just thinking the same thing."

"Race you for it?"

"OK."

The man is 88 years old, but he is sneaky quick. He bolted for the prize. We had to run the length of the dock, make an extreme left turn, and then jump down into the rocks. He kept the lead by screening me from getting by him. Until the turn.

When he twisted to make the turn, I shoved him from behind, and he pitched downward...about 5 feet...into the rocks. I jumped down, stepped on his butt, and scurried over the rocks (and him) to claim the buoy.

What can I say? He was bloodied up in five spots (both knees, both palms, and one elbow), but the man knows that a contest is a contest. To the victor goes the spoil. To the pusher goes the prize. To the blipper goes the buoy.

Every lobsterman (lobsterwoman) have their own colors that they paint their buoys with. Black, white, orange, yellow on this one. I had to turn it just right, because the back of it is badly damaged. Maybe I should have let Dad have it.

My lies on this blip,
might be immense.
But there sits the buoy,
on my back fence.