“A man with cancer was in a sailboat race yesterday, and his boat was struck by another one and badly damaged”

In Newport Harbor's morning gleam,  
A sail unfurled—a tattered dream—  
He stood, thin-jawed, with eyes that scanned  
The bishop's light, the glinting strand.  
His breath was shallow, ribcage tight—  
A hush of hope beneath the blight  
Of something silent in his veins,  
A clandestine, unwelcome stain.  

The whistle blew—a flock of sails  
Unfurled like wings, caught hopeful gales.  
He steered his craft with measured hands,  
Old sailor’s skill and weathered plans,  
Remembering childhood squalls and spray,  
His father's voice on windy days:  
"Hold fast, my boy, through waves and fear—  
The strongest wind will whisper clear."  

But yesterday, the race was fierce.  
A looming hull began to pierce  
The noon-lit haze—a warning shout,  
Too late to shift, too late to doubt.  
The crunch of fiberglass and wood,  
A splintered bow where once it stood,  
And jumbled canvas, tangled lines,  
Salt stinging lips, a bell that chimes.  

He drifted when the crowd had gone—  
His vessel bowed, but not his dawn.  
He traced pale scars on battered boards  
And smiled at sunlight’s old rewards,  
For though his body yields, at times,  
To currents dark as closing blinds,  
His spirit swells with every gust—  
A sailor’s soul, unswayed by rust.  

So, in the hush beyond repair,  
He gazed across the briny air.  
Though hull and flesh will someday part,  
The race still sails within his heart.  
For every wound and jolt and fray  
In yesterday’s disastrous bay  
Is mark and proof that, for a while,  
He braved the storm, and sailed with style.

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