A meta mayday

 Through the deep sand track bordered by blood root

he towed the boat, bouncing on its trailer, to the water's edge.

He backs up to a stony boat ramp, peppered with blue bathroom tiles and asbestos

scattered to ward off the clay.

Tilts up the motor, pushes the boat off its rollers

until it sploshes into the water.

Checks his nets are pulled over all neat.

First set of the season.

Smoke rises lazy from a chimney to the north.

He can hear her chopping fire wood in the still wind,

the sound of her axe cutting through still air.

May Day and the inlet season begins.

Motor rumbles into life, peaceably.

Watch for the rocks.

Watch for the rocks.

Chug chug with the prop lifted high.

It dies ... pull again.

Birds call their evening alarm and drizzle

slides from his water proofs. 

Choke: check

Fuel pump: check.

The fisherman knows from the smell that she's burning green peppermint  wood.

'Brooom!' and the gentle hum of a 4 stroke behaving itself.

Jam it into reverse and back away.

Turn the tiller to port, jam it into ahead.

And off he goes

through the labyrinth of stones

then he fires up the throttle to go set the nets.