Shortridge High School - Annual Yearbook (Indianapolis, IN)

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A MOONLIGHT SAIL JOHN FENSTERMAKER WO hours had passed since the sun, a ruddy orange disc of fire, had cast its last warm rays upon the lake, which was now as smooth as a mirror, ex- cept for ripplings here and there, ripplings caused by a slight breath of wind, which brushed against the surface as a mother touches her sleeping child with a gentle, goodnight kiss. The day had been a hot one, and the water still re- tained about it a blanket of delightfully gentle warmth, which was occasionally broken by a cool, refreshing puff of land breeze. The canvas of the sloop was set, and a mild but steady breeze would soon fill the sails, now flapping futilely in the fitful gusts of Wind. Sud- denly someone shouted, Push off! I cast the painter from the pier hurriedly, for coming to- ward us over the water, which shone blacker than the blackest ink, was a host of small ripples which betokened the approach of a sailing breeze. For a time there Was much commotion on board the sloop-laughter and loud voices intermingled. When We were under way, the frivolity became gradually subdued and then hushed. Nothing could be heard but the gentle lapping of the Waves against the bow. At times the sound became almost a continual ripple, broken by an occasional, momen- tary lull. Here and there a loud splash was heard as a bass leapt far out of the Water and fell back with a resounding smack. The moon, shining in a cloudless heaven, sent forth a pale, silvery illumination which cut a path across the water, but which failed to penetrate those dark depths and seemed only to enhance the impenetrability of that jet- black mirror. I glanced at my companions. All seemed to be preoccupied and in a deep revery. I did not need to seek far for the channel through which thoughts Were guiding them. The scene about us was inspiring and seemed to turn our minds toward retrospection. On the port side, against a faint, dark shoreline a few dim lights ,, , J rv M

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NIGHT The long day draws to a closeg Stars, one by one, Appear in the darkening sky: A gray crane iiaps its wings And nies off Over the marsh. From the ocean a soft wind Whispers through the pinesg Maj estically The moon rises over the ocean A silver disk Sailing toward the dawn. Night. It is night in the south land. -Betty Meyers. 1

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A MOONLIGHT SAIL showed the position of a small, sleepy town, which had retired long ago, and now lay like an infant on the shore of the protecting lake. As the sloop neared the town, the wind changed its course a bit. Owing to this fact and the lateness of the hour, we came about and started home- ward. The moon was now gone. Water and sky met and seemed to merge, leaving a blurred line as the only sign of intersection. The wind had become cooler but was not so strong as it had been, and our progress was much slower. As we neared the familiar inlet, the wind slowed to a breeze and within the bay the breeze became hardly noticeable. With the dying of the wind, everything about the sloop became drowsy. There were none of the cus- tomary noises which one hears when a sailing vessel is in motion. The creaking of the mast, the rattle and squeaking protests of the pulleys, the hum of the bilgeboards, all were silent and as if this cast its shade upon them, the members of the sailing party were hushed and talked ln subdued voices. The sloop was soon made ready for the night and anchored at its buoy. In groups the party dispersed, the sound of their steps on the board walk ringing clear over the water. I remained, seated on the end of the pier, listening to the resounding echoes of the steps of the departing sailing party. Soon all was silent save the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the anchored sloop. Possessed with a deep feeling of content, I hoped that life would always be like this. I wondered. Suddenly, into my revery broke the realization that while I lingered, another day was approaching, and I arose to go. However, it seemed as if I took with me some of the solem- nity and inspiration with which the great out-of-doors must inspire those whose joy it is to live and work in the great open spaces. Lava It crept and seethed, Rolled in and out, It was ill at ease, It was all about. Alive, it seemed, This menacing mass, A glowering fiend Grasping all in its clasp. It slowly surged, Boiling and burning, It hissed a dirge While milling, churning. It sang of fate, Laughed at creation, And left in its wake Complete desolation. -Marcella Moore