Warren Woessner

When the wind clipped the whitecaps, and the flags came down before they shredded, we knew it was no nor’easter. The Blue Nose ferry stayed on course, west out of Yarmouth, while 100 miles of fog on the Bay blew away. The Captain let us stand on the starboard bridge and scan a jagged range. Shearwaters skimmed the peaks while storm petrels hunted valleys that slowly filled with gold. Alberto blew out in the Atlantic. We came back to earth that for days might tip and sway and cast us back to sea.