by Jill Munro

he’d named his boat Cimsagro – echoes of a Tahitian isle, maybe,
of Maupiti, Tubuai, Cimsagro – and, like Fletcher’s, I was his island girl.
White-shirted, he draped flower garlands around my neck. I was Maimiti –
we held hands on his deck, then kissed like there was no From Here to Eternity.
As we rolled on rising waves, bare-backed white-horses cantered by,
swelling seas rocked our finger-touches, salty tongues flicked to and fro.
If we’d been land-locked, no doubt the earth would have moved, rockets exploded –
instead the tide trampolined us, unmattressed, from port to star-spangled-board.
Yet we reached our ecstasies. I turned to him and whispered in a Christian ear:
Why ‘Cimsagro’? Why not ‘The Bounty’, ‘Tall Sails’ or ‘She Got the House’?
and he replied, Sail backwards, my love – you’ll find it’s a place we’ve both just been.