The smell of the Evinrude

Gasoline and oil

The curve of the open wooden boat

The high prow

As his father and his father's friends

Launch it into the surf

Timing the waves to crest them

And they will return with tales

Of the ocean beyond the surf

And fish packed in ice boxes

Which will not quite explain

The beauty of the curve

Of that prow riding the curves

Of those waves, out to open sea