He moved through Newport
like a tide that knew its way—
rolling along streets smooth with purpose—
past old stones that remembered centuries—
toward the Redwood Library’s quiet wisdom
or the Harbor’s restless blue. A familiar figure—
wheels whispering along sidewalks,
smile wide, as an open sail,
he gathered strangers, like stories,
and left them lighter than he found them,
as if joy were something he could lend.
Elizabeth Spring
An Englishman with oceans in his voice,
he carried history the way others carry maps—
effortlessly unfolding time and tale,
from kings and chaos to ships and storms,
his words a current,
his laughter the wind that filled it.
And oh, the sea—
it called to him, and he answered, always.
Not even wheels could anchor him to shore;
he taught the art of sailing
to hands unsure, to hearts untried,
until fear gave way to foam and sky.
He believed the ocean belonged to everyone—
every soul, every body, every dream—
and so he made a way
where none had been before.
Over two thousand miles he traveled,
but his greatest voyage
was his work of making it possible
for others like him, to sail as well.
And then—there was his love.
Sharyn, his heart’s true harbor,
dancing beside him as the world turned soft—
her hair alive in the wind,
his spirit rising from the chair
with her beside him
as though nothing—
nothing could keep them from the music.
He was courage without announcement,
kindness without condition,
a life not measured by limits
but by horizons made wider.
And if he were here, smiling still,
he might remind us—what Ratty
said to Mole, “In the Wind in the Willows”:
“Believe me, my young friend,
there is nothing, absolutely nothing,
half so much worth doing
as simply messing about in boats.”