This is in memorium to my dad, Quinn Lewis Stewart, Jr., who at the age of 94, August 28, 2009, went on to be with the Lord. He never was one to miss out on a good trip. He would often tell of how he and mom, along with aunt Sara and Haywood had visited all 48 contiguous states and would have gone to Hawaii if someone had built a bridge.
I don't think he would have been opposed to sailing there.
Even in his 90's he went down to the beach and sailed with my brother and I on Briar Patch. Any time from now on when I am out sailing, a piece of him will always be with me.
The following poem is in memory of dad, my ship.
The Ship
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch her until at length she is only a speck of white cloud just where the sea and the sky meet and mingle with each other. Then someone at my side exclaims, “There, she’s gone!”
Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all. She is just as large in hull and mast and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of her destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “She’s gone,” there are other eyes watching for her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “There, she comes!”
And that is dying.
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch her until at length she is only a speck of white cloud just where the sea and the sky meet and mingle with each other. Then someone at my side exclaims, “There, she’s gone!”
Gone where? Gone from my sight, that is all. She is just as large in hull and mast and spar as she was when she left my side, and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of her destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “She’s gone,” there are other eyes watching for her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “There, she comes!”
And that is dying.