Shipmates are starting to die off and the boats we sailed to disappear. “At my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near”. We need a group Memoriam:
There is a port of no return, where ships
May ride at anchor for a little space
And then, some starless night, the cable slips,
Leaving an eddy at the mooring place.
Gulls, veer no longer. Sailor, rest your oar. No tangled wreckage will be washed ashore.
by Leslie Nelson Jennings