Ghost Ship
by Scott Shaffer

It’s a lazy, balmy, sunny morning; we meander through the Florida canal
in the 20-foot pontoon boat; relish our freedom from responsibility.

While bro-in-law Tom skippers his craft toward the Gulf of Mexico,
my sister, wife, and I wave to boaters, marvel at magnificent yachts.

Emerging from the locks, we squint from sun rays sparkling off the sea;
bask in the brightness; savor the freshness of the breeze, its gentle touch;

exult when we spot dolphins at play.  Crashing waves serenade us,
their sprays invigorate us.  We drop anchor in a cove for a picnic feast. 

It’s great to be alive and on the water!  Tom surprises us—a blow-up kayak!
His pump wooshes it to life; he and I flop in, pull toward a “ghost ship”—

an intriguing, discarded sailboat in the distance.  We paddle furiously.
But the kayak careens from side to side, only lurching forward.  We laugh    

so hard, we can’t talk!  What’s going on?!  Tom, typically understated,
mutters, “I knew I needed a rudder.”  “Wuh, bro, … no rudder?!” 

We coordinate strokes, and make better strides.  Still, a ten-minute paddle
takes 30 minutes. Finally, we bump into the abandoned sail:  

crusty barnacles, peeling paint, splintered mast, decrepit deck. Like a dog
chasing and catching a car, Now, what?  Our “prize” is a worthless wreck.

We savor our soggy, hilarious trip, while repeating our spectacle back
to the mother ship.  Later I ponder, How often do I chase “ghost ships”—
mirages that market happiness, but can never keep their promises?        

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