27-SEP-07

The Francis Morizon rests off South Manitou Island. Home to nesting cormorants and seagulls, the putrid smell of death envelops her entirely. Not knowing that she is torn in half, she struggles to free herself. Submerged about her lie wooden ships; casualties of other winter storms, long, long before. Their massive hand hewn ribs deteriorate silently in the crystal liquid. Above the surface, her thick steel plates repel the waves effortlessly. With strength still remaining, she wonders why she is not still dancing through the blue water, sending wakes to the golden sandy shores of Wisconsin and Michigan. Her port side, like the dark side of the moon, will never again be warmed by the sun. The gulls cry with her. She to will be swallowed by time. Magnificient even now, her accomplishments are past. We feel and know that we to will go her way. We reverantly honor, and wish it didn't have to be. 

whs  

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"Billy Bob", a true fish story.