The low boat builder, through the fog of his desires, searched gently for his potential lover, Carlos, the high boat builder of yonder shore and then. The low built builder, by name of Sparky, pledged his troth somehow, and somehow hoped that it would ripple the fog and touch Carlos, his highness of high boat builder and love.
Carlos, high boat builder of one score and ten, cast down a look over the fog and asked his imagination to imagine what delights and details were hiding in the thickness, in the form of the lower orders, in the low lying fog. His imagination, prickly from misuse, retorted something about a dive into the fog: Dive down my high and mighty master, dive down dare if you so dare! Accepting the dare, Carlos, his anchor as apparel, dived forth port side into the guess of open arms, the anticipation of safety and a catch in wide open, open arms.
Into the fog, the fog
Into the mist and kissed
Sparky, low boat builder by trade and treacle, tasted, for the first time, the sweet salt of certain success. Carlos, high and mighty but now flat from descent, took in the essence of his low boat builder. They clasped and how. A fair side from port side, from side-to-side and tried.
Below deck, the muffled creak of the rise towards sunset and the drift towards rock. Carlos and Sparky, our boat builders of practice and pen, sway in silence to the contours of breeze. Up she rises, and down once again. Through open portholes they —
Our sad captains tethered to their bunks, as quicker the rise, the blur of the sky. The rigging, the yard arm, the plank out to sea
The bounce of the waves, the undulating sea.
This, said Sparky as he doodled an anchor on his lover’s high arm, is what keeps me from thinking. I press and go sometimes, press and go. And, recurred Sparky, his vision now hot to the theme, I am as lost in the fog as I ever was. Except now you are here with me. Together we are lost in the fog.
But morningtide soon rose and with it the sun. Ah, yawned the sun in greatness, as he stretched mighty across the grey now green land that stretched for all the eye to see. What, asked the sun, is that greyness here, that patch of cover I spy below me? More to the point, he sunned and warmer to his theme, who or what lies shrouded within? Something nautical I would hazard to guess.
Of a sort, as it transpired and as we well know. There was indeed something nautical lurking within the grey, the fog below. Our two beloved boat builders, one high, one low.