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.