Helm's A-Lee

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Grazing through the bay
Water churns, rope burns, sails fill;
The heading is near.

I stand on the bow with the help of a shroud,
Saluting the waves, standing tall and proud.

Grazing through the bay
Water churns, rope burns, sails fill;
The heading is near.

Always making sure that there’s enough room,
We leap to the other side, avoiding the
Boom.
The breeze smells of salt
As it quickly rushes past,
While the tide continues to change again
Against my silver mast.

Grazing through the bay
Water churns, rope burns, sails fill;
The heading is near.





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