MILAGRO, THE TRAWLER. My beautiful lass, you always wondered why I called this old boat Milagro or why I loved to live on this vessel since I could not grow my orchids aboard. The salt, you know. I will tell you now. It is only big enough for the two of us. One of the staterooms is a studio for you. My work is done on the galley table. I have Irish lace curtains because I love them. It has cobalt blue trim and teak decks and kick rails. The hand rails are polished teak and the galley has Taiwaness carved teak cupboards. It will travel slowly, after all we are in no hurry to get anywhere. The stateroom we do our dreaming in is ample and cozy. The deck is large and organized. It is big enough for us to make love in the middle of the sea and scream like wild banshees. It has no nautical theme, I despise that, but has your lovely art fairly covering every other space. There is no place on this trawler where I cannot gaze upon your beauty. I told you that the water was always in short supply so that we may bathe together and you believed me. We can motor to Cuba and back on one tank of petrol. And I love her. Not like I love your humaness, but like I love a well crafted vessel. You I love because I cannot stop. I am under a Gaelic spell with you and how it is you make me feel. The boat she is sound and sturdy and motors quiet and takes me to foreign places, but you take me to astral places. Though I love our old boat, it thinks naught of me. Though I keep it's teak in the condition of polished gold, it gives no thanks, though it's midsail is blinding white and clean it matters not to this old boat. But this old boat needs to be loved, as I do. She needs to be cared for and nurtured as I do. She needs a good polishing frequently as I do. And this is what you give to me. As we lay about, each on our own side bunk lazily watching the giant tankers languidly sail by and the halyards clanging on the mast and listen to the gulls screech, You eyes meet mine over the painting you are working on and, ever studious, I am pondering some lofty book of poems. Sometimes out loud to you, when the part has to do with undying love, and you smile and tell me, Michael, you are flirting with me again. You are being a naughty boy. I love, oh, how I love when you say that. It is my life that you speak of. And as your eyes meet mine, a silent understanding transcends between us and I know that we will always be inside one another, and this old boat shall come and go and perhaps another, but my dearest love, I will find no sturdier woman, no more trustworthy with my life, no more deck steady or one that undulates as you do. I have stopped the search and if it is to be that you share this life with me, you will be in constant joy and good humour, this I swear to you. The boat Milagro means miracle, but my only love; the miracle is that you are here with me. written by Michael Forbus