in the faces of the 50 rowers of the trireme

as they chant and pull;

the blue is reflected on the ship’s hull

and the banks of oars.


P

haon and I were offshore in his rowboat, the small sail furled, the surf near by, doubling into smooth green, sunset brazing the hori­zon. We had been gay, drifting, oar dragging, taking chances with the surf. Upright at the stern, Phaon looked about idly: we had been talking about going for a swim. Suddenly, he faced me and shouted:

“Over there...see them...pirate boats!”

“What?”