Across the bays and in the coastal estuaries,
the mooring minders bobbed and swayed.
Sun bleached hulls heeling to the wind.
Deck boards dry and split, masts naked without shame.
Drooping booms mere perches for the birds.
Forgotten halyards tapping unrestrained.
And in the dark and unforgiving sea,
barnacles bred undisturbed, and long chains rusted.
The man from Waterways came by,
aboard his shining motor launch,
muttered, scowled and often shook
his balding head.
The list was long.
Land based mariners were waiting, waiting,
just aching for the chance,
to catch the weed ringed buoy.
To lift that loop of weathered jute,
to bed securely, at last, their own storm tossed dreams.
Years ago, they knew, others found these unused bays,
where surely something could be moored.
Some vessel could reserve the floating space,
could wait there, ready, just in case.
Not the dream, the laid deck, the tan sails,
just a minder, as long as it could float.
Not a vessel to cherish in its own right,
this holder of the chance for future dreams.
Something to only just maintain,
to keep that man from Waterways away…
to play the game for one more year and one more year.
Yet if called upon to navigate a change of fortune,
the mooring and its minder would be there.
An option held on pause, ready.
In one such sheltered bay a leaky minder rocked alone.
Seasons came and went, a scrape beneath the water line,
a smear of fibreglass along a leaky seam,
and once a number painted by her name,
Dream Catcher, but little more than that.
A decade passed and now she lay amidst a crowd.
New neighbours tugged and pulled against the tide,
and on the shore, where once the casuarina spread,
there was a slip and freshly laid hard ground.
Here real sailors laboured day by day.
Water tinged with antifoul lapped against bare feet.
Nearby, the mooring minder, in the bay,
unassuming, lay still, now awash with shame.
For those well-heeled late-comers,
it was a short row to the club
(where friends revelled in their privilege).
Their vessels waited, proudly, on display,
pampered and prepared, for the odd club race,
(although the handicap was never fair).
And for the weekend cruise, in company,
(with stories of past exploits and with drinks).
They gazed with admiration at all the well-dressed masts,
the perky booms and nodding here, a fresh-oiled bow sprit.
They did not linger on that sorry one, lying in their midst,
draped hopefully with mildewed pennants.
The first boat in the bay, the mooring minder.
Skippers turned their helms,
to slip with casual interest past the derelict,
and roll their eyes at her sad sight.
Yet none could say what life would throw.
What if the owner had the chance at last?
Well then he still had this -
his waiting hook to catch that long held dream.
A new block could be dropped,
the half-forgotten chain replaced.
Fresh jute and well spliced loop might yet secure
the cherished one, a classic, exemplifying class.
The dreamer lifts his head, exhales.
And the mooring minder?
that floating and unlovely hull?
Well it could go.
Job done.
Its solitary life of service,
now complete.

The Mooring Minder was originally published in My Fair Lighthouse on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.