Despite the wind that’s cold



no gloves nor winter hat



for the ten-year-old.





I lean with the waves



backs broken by her bow



sea-legs and springed stance



keep me dry for now.





The wind whips and whines



chaps my neck and my nose



my hands were warm, too



hidden down, pocket-deep.





But the boy braves closer



than his mother’d like to see.





So my red, tingling hands


should he slip on the deck



are cold and stiff, but ready.