PETER KARP

One of my earliest recollections of knowing who I was is when I was 5 years old out on my father's leaky old pound boat 50 miles out in the icy Atlantic bobbing and cascading through 20 foot swells in an angry and treacherous storm. I loved standing out on the bow where the railing meets at the tip, holding on tightly while the boat would dive headfirst down into an oncoming crush of seawater, momentarily submerged then suddenly exploding up through the backside of the wave.My father came up behind me, put his arms around me and whispered in my ear:"Isn't this great Peter? Isn't this life great...?" On the ride back in and on subsequent voyages, I would lie on the engine cover under a blanket and listen to the sound of the overworked motor moaning and groaning as it pushed the old wood dragger through the sea. Snug under the cover and warm from the heat radiating through the wood, I would close my eyes and in my mind start rhyming words and lyrics to the atonal melody vibrating through me from the engine below.