“Do I have to?” I whine and I cry,
As I stand under blue, cloudless sky,
But we’ve boiled every pot,
And the water’s so hot,
That my rain boots must keep my feet dry.
Barry buttonholed me today and asked me to to help him pour many gallons of boiling water over plywood (to bend it). This limerick is a fib — you can see from the photo that I love my rain boots. They’re cute and blue, like something Paddington Bear would wear.
The other photo is for my Washington and Colorado friends. It proves we have potheads here in Georgia, too.
I should search for myself on the ‘net,
For this week I could never forget,
Cameras on either side,
Snapping pix of our ride,
As we cruised down the Ditch, all sails set.
This is another limerick I wrote last month, when we sailed the ICW from Vero Beach to St. Mary’s, Georgia. Eventually, I’ll get used to all the cameras pointed our way — this is what we get for making such an unusual and beautiful rig!
“OK, what’s that I see?” I asked Barry,
When dear Flutterby sailed to St. Mary.
“Just a sub and some tugs,
And a lot of lovebugs,
And a gawker or ten on the ferry.”
It was a light wind day in May, and we’d been swatting at annoying but non-biting lovebugs all morning. We took a lot of photos of a giant submarine going out to sea, escorted by tugs and other ships. But when the ferry to Cumberland Island passed by, all the cameras were pointed at Flutterby, instead. She’s a lot more colorful.
All our friends start to yawn, start to tire,
“Is it time to go home?” they inquire.
In the Vero Beach scene,
Nine o’clock seems to mean,
“It is midnight, put out the bonfire.”
It’s a well-known fact that “midnight” in Vero Beach refers to nine o’clock. By that definition, we stayed out until “two am,” enjoying a bonfire and sharing stories with friends on a deserted island. Then we put out the fire, were towed back to the marina, rowed back to Flutterby in the moonlight, and we still rang in the new year aboard our own boat!
“Oh, these masts are such pretty, tall things,
I will sit here and dry off my wings,”
But a cormorant’s big,
When he sits on our rig,
Unaware of the chaos he brings.
We broke off conversation, mid-word,
When such banging and thumping was heard,
And we ran up on deck,
But all’s clear — what the heck?
Then we looked up. “Hey! Scram, you dumb bird!”
We were down below when the sound reverberated throughout the boat. We were sure that either a) another boat had collided with us or b) our anchor was dragging. But it was just an effect of the hollow mizzen mast carrying the sound down to us!
12-23-2012 UPDATE: The guest limericks just keep pouring in. Do you have one for us?
12-19-2012 UPDATE: Make that three guest limericks!
Two guest limericks, from opposite corners of the USA, were inspired by the news that Flutterby is now sailing!
This one comes from x x, also known as Kevin Keane. In 2010, he shed his own precious blood to help us launch Flutterby:
I wish I could write a good Limerick
not a poem, but truly a Limerick
but try as i might
I can’t get it right
I can’t find a word rhymes with Limerick
Here’s one from Pat McNeely, who wants to paint Flutterby’s portrait (Columbia, South Carolina):
When Hank told me about your fine rig,
I almost danced a big jig,
It’s finished, Hank said,
As he went off to bed
Saying sailing’s your favorite gig.
This comes from Roger, of Jo Hee (Key West):
Let go of that nasty ol funk
Put all the tools in the trunk
Cause this is the day
You two sail away
On your just-completed junk!
And this one is from Limerick Nick, of Valkyrie (Seattle):
The sailing is your happy spot
After so many bad days of not
Barry fixed the frigging
Messed-up old rigging
Now Meps thinks he’s totally hot!