Saturday, November 3, 2007

My Boys

Ed Sturgeon

The skies open, the seas abate, and the tide ebbs. Edward Sturgeon, an intrepid adventurer, fearless lover, bold beholder of the beaty of life, a brave battler of outrageous injustice, a courageous companion, daring dictator of drastic social change, spirited spinnaker setter, would-be heroic life saver, gallant gentleman, and audacious dark green hand aboard the great sailing vessel Annie Laurie, comes gratefully into another day. Born the great grandson of an Irish sail maker, the son of a carpenter and raised by a kind woman, this boy formed into a young man with a stout copper constitution. He makes his way through the vicissitudes of daily living with a strong heart and a strong back. He mindfully experiences the lighter side of the heaviness of being, without regard to those who would attempt to rein him in or quell his sardonic quirk. Some call him a rouge, others a rambler. They would be mistaken, however, to think they truly know his character. His being is constantly undergoing renovations: an ever changing chippy; a block on his shoulder that reads these simple words: Love binds every time together and joins all places. The center of all places at once converge on anyone who loves deeply and completely. With self and without arrogance, adaption and constant revision is the gift and the curse. And the whimsy of inherited familial social bias based on ancient grudges and misconceived half-truths is carried along by love and alas, un-love. We all of us are tied together. We're joyfully one and so painfully alone. We are so separate and also so in love. We are no time, every nothing, and always, every place, in constant love.

Logan Livingston

In the beginning there was light, air, wood, and water. The ancestral Norsemen couldn't have asked for anything more- In the furthest depths of black death-ice, bloody storm, and hardened soul men were spawned from the sea, thrown into an existence of land exile and sea servitude; there was nothing more... or so they believed. Over the centuries a myth was formed, a vision in a fire of smoke and charred bones, a vision of a being so capable of uniting hundreds of years of experience, thousands of ocean miles, unbeaten heroism, strength, endurance, brethren and skill began to take hold, root itself in the iron hearts and subconscious of every soul who cast their eyes upon the sea. In the year nineteen hundred and eighty three, a son was born. Shot out from his mothers womb into a sea of black current and salt, this little man was forced into being by a simple struggle: to survive. In the early days of his life he grew fins before his toes could take shape, gills replaced lungs and scales encrusted his mortal skin. The seas currents carried him to the furthest corners of the world before the age of three; by the age of eight, tide nor storm could abate him- for the ocean was his to have, and so he took it. Guided by Spanish navigators, taught by Greek fisherman, moulded by Norwegian sailors, forced to battle by the British, forced to hide with the West Indian Whalers and hardened by years of grain racing, Logan Livingston became a name to all sailors, a voice in the dark when all hope is lost, a cry to those throughout the world with the slightest salt running through their veins. A rumble of ferociousness as if the waves themselves obey the very words that leap from his hoarse throat. A powerhouse of wisdom, strength, vigor and hardened experience, this legend lives on.