Perhaps, if I were a locksmith
I could find the key,
That would allow me to open up
And look at the real me,
Who ever that is.

I was in the eighth grade
When my friend and I,
Decided to go from Seattle
To Lynden, to pick strawberries.
We were both Boy Scouts
With back packs and sleeping bags.
We left our homes
On this wonderous journey,
By hitchhiking, up North, on old 99.
We arrived in Lynden, later that day
And were told "no strawberries";
it was the end of the season.
We turned around, noting our plight
And slept in a Bellingham field that night.
Back to our homes, we then went
And noticed that green bean picking
Would be another event.
But that is another story.

The darkness is falling, as we leave the shore.
Going back to our ship, nothing more.
No one is talking but there is nothing to fear,
For we're in the "Whale Boat", the ship is near.
I see the Seaman, as I am looking aft.
Thank God we have a motor; not on a raft.
Pulling up to the ship, on the Port side, with care
(That's the left side for those unaware).
Climb up the ladder on to the deck,
Salute the Flag and Duty Officer, Oh Lord,
Requesting loudly, "Permission to come aboard?"
Down to our quarters, for bed time is near,
We're protecting our Country, Please don't you fear.

The water swirls and gushes
Over rock and stone.
I stand on the bank
But I'm not alone.
There are trees of Pine
And some Bramble bush,
While the water moves
Quickly, with melodic rush.
I stand there, fly rod in hand
Making cast after cast,
Seeing where the fly will land
In the right spot,
The back of the eddy.
With fingers touching the line,
I await and am ready,
For the tap, from a fish,
That wants this fine morsel.
If it bites, I'll have my wish
And soon be on my way,
With a most delectable fish.