We shoved off. I took starboard, you took port and rudder, I the jib. The rising sail puffs proudly, slackens then inhales in sport. Will we have shifting gusts or calm or gale? Above the ribbons, one on either side, take turns, to flutter, fall, flash red or green to signal changes in the wind and guide us where to steer, which way to shift and lean. I want today to be a special day and yet I fear I'll see your anger flare. If we can stay in rhythm, task, and play perhaps you won't observe my jealous glare. By dock will there be tears amid the brine? I scan your face for any tell-tale sign.

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