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Isn't it strange you work hard and try your best and there is guilt? It lasts for years and even after it is gone sometimes it whispers in the mid of night. The 966 is a beauty Allen. I'm glad you have her. Bill
I happened across a fisherman once mending his nets head bent
I asked of him “isn’t there an easier way to make a dollar and cent?”
He squinted upon the harbor for a moment maybe two
His stitching again he commenced, then spoke; “This is what I do.”
I watched him fish and watched him work. I saw he missed his wife.
I heard him swear, I heard him sigh. I saw not a lavish life.
I offered him several different paths. I offered him wealth too.
He pulled fish filled nets aboard his boat and sang; “This is what I do.” He did his best each day. He worked hard and when he could he played. When others chose to leave their dreams, he stood fast and stubbornly stayed. He piloted his vessel through stormy chop and across tranquil blue.
He laughed, he cried, he burst with pride shouting, “This is what I do!”
He taught his craft to his son, as his father had long ago taught he,
A love first won, of a fisherman and son, a life upon the sea.
Every man has his ocean, a sea that he must sail A way of life that holds his heart, a dream he cannot fail.
Many a time I’ve slowly mended my life nets and listened too
To critics of my ways and pondered just what it is that I must do. I pick up my eyes, look to the sky, I get lost in its many hues.
I think of a fine fisherman, his son, and know This is what I do.
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