Denny was born up Pubnico way in eighteen and ninety two,
In nineteen eleven to Boston he came, a dory man tried and true.
He fished from a dory for thirty two years till the war put an end to the trade
Moved to Chatham and fished alongshore in good weather, not much, but a living he made,
At age seventy-two he fetched up on the beach in a shack in the woods by the Bay,
Rigged gear for the fleet and cleared our bad snarls, recoiled in a tight perfect lay.
A master, was Denny, rerigging our gear, each bundle a near work of art,
With his help all that summer we landed huge trips and a half share we left in his cart.
Denny was tiny, a lone quiet man, no family he had of we knew,
We’d leave him some beer and groceries to hand in the winter when gear work was few.
Then one day next winter Denny was sick, in his shack stone cold and in pain,
To a hospital bed in Hyannis he went not far from our boat on the bay.
We’d travel to see him, kids twenty five years, he’s lost in the bed, thin and pale,
Hated that hospital food, he did, wouldn’t eat and was wasting away.
So we went to the fish store and bought us some haddock which we cooked on our boat at the dock,
Wrapped it in foil and raced to the hospital, still hot when he reached for his fork.
Oh that fish he did eat, every bit, every bite, and a smile we’d see in his eyes,
So each day we’d cook and bring him his lunch, hear his stories which Denny called lies.
Later he moved to an old people’s home in South Chatham for hospice care,
The food there was better, but Denny was failing, companionship was all he could share.
And always with Denny, those last weeks he had, three men sat with him for hours,
Old dory mates all, telling tales of the days they all shared in their youth and their power,
Harold and Peter and Edward their names, first sailing then steaming offshore,
From their dories through years of weather and waves, saw men lost in the fog evermore.
I can hear those four men, all old, one quite ill, in that pale late afternoon light,
Their memories and laughter of days now long gone when from dories they worked with such pride.
Denny came to Boston a century ago, a dory man he and his mates,
I was lucky to know him, see his art working gear, he was small but to us he was great.
His lies now all lost, the memories too, but I hold in my heart that rare sight,
Four dory men true, gathered together, keeping real their lost way of life.
Now Denny’s long gone, it’s nigh forty years since the kid in me brought gear to his shack,
And just as his memories are lost now forever mine soon will fade in the black.
When you see an old fisherman, hands like burled wood, skin pale and eyes watery and dim,
Unshaven, clothes rumpled, slumped deep in a chair, never judge there’s no glory in him,
His story not written, his memories mist, his whole way of life but a dream,
Whaler, salt banker, dory man he, now one with the unchanging sea.
