A single masted square-rigger anchored in the harbor last night. I have never seen such a boat before, but it is unquestionably well-suited for this antiquated harbor of ours.
sailboat
Sailboat and Lighthouse, February 3, 2016, 7:14 a.m., Saint Augustine Harbor
I am a break-of-day photographer who lives at the edge of land in St. Augustine, Florida. Since moving here, I have become drawn to moored sailboats in our small harbors that open into the vastness of the Atlantic. My attraction is related to a notion I have of man’s boundless curiosity that has historically driven him to undertake dangerous, far-ranging seagoing adventures.
The best time to capture this mood with my camera, I have learned, is during the brief period before and after the sun rises on days of partly clear skies and gentle winds. The sun’s light is not blindingly bright then, and its position is low, horizontal to objects on the water and beneath the clouds, resulting in deepened colors, highlighted shadows, long reflections in still waters, and, when I am lucky, an arresting photo.
Fog on Matanzes Bay, February 2, 2016, 7:17 a.m.
The harbor is fog-filled this morning. Ghost ships come in and out of view on Matanzas Bay – first one boat, then another, and then the first again – as the mist swirls and meanders southward. The Bridge of Lions and the boats moored further out are but vaguely defined at best, and I begin to entertain unanswerable questions relating to existence and reality.
A Hard Choice, February 11, 2016, 7:45 a.m.
If I had to choose, I would take the ketch, which is moored farther away from me toward the bay’s eastern shore, for I am partial to the lines of older boats and especially so to two-masted ones. But – honestly? – any one of them would suit my purpose at this particular moment.
Seduction, January 21, 2016, 7:00 a.m.
On at least one star-filled morning each month, I can be found elbow-supported, wooden-railing leaning at the end of the Lighthouse Pier where I gaze toward the sand-duned line along the southernmost end of Salt Run. There, by the light of a sun that has yet to crest those sandy ridges, night’s quiet transformation into day occurs so swiftly that my brain can but register its changes as stop motion animation: changes in the sky where yellow intrudes upon dark charcoals, diluting them into steely blues; changes that brighten and polish smooth patches of water so that channel markers and mooring floats might reflect upon their states; and changes that shear night’s veil guarding a secured ketch till the boat’s emerging beauty seduces me once again.
Bridge of Lions, January 24, 2016, 7:29 a.m.
The sun rises to the south in St. Augustine during the winter. On cloudless mornings then, once the sun clears the trees that line the shore on Anastasia Island, it brightens and burnishes the south side of the Bridge of Lions in a manner that brings to my mind the bridge over River Itchen by the gates of the Royal Court of Arthur.
Salt Run Adventure Dreaming
On the first star-filled morning of each second month, I hasten to the Lighthouse Pier where I take photos in the rosy-dawn light of sailboats at anchor on Salt Run. There, at each click of my camera’s shutter, I find myself inserted into misty images of daring voyages to distant and mystical lands.
Salt Run Sailboats at Dawn
Securely moored in an outgoing tide
Toward the southern end of Salt Run,
Sailboats dream of foreign adventure
Till night’s mist fades with morning’s sun.
Freedom’s Price
Surrendering to the schooner’s inability to tack against the increasing strength of the northeast wind in the narrow channel, the captain told his first mate to turnabout just south of Porpoise Point and return to St. Augustine’s harbor. Jacques, overhearing the order, glass of wine in hand and chatting amiably with fellow passengers, silently began his calculations for jumping ship.
Reveille
Reveille
Beckons the day,
“Wake up, my pretties!
Time to set sail!
Now, cast off! Away!”
Tide, teasingly,
Tugs at their sterns.
“Come, sleepy boats,
This way to the sea!”
Vilano Images 