Park Point, Duluth, Minnesota
She pauses to gaze out at the undulating blue water,
Breathing in the beauty of the scene, letting it lap
Over her, like waves gently massaging the shore.
The vista that has captured her attention
Has seen its sad sagas of storm and shipwreck,
But she's as oblivious to the lake's history
As she's aware of her looks, her bikini lines,
Her legs and her long cascading blonde hair.
On June 7th, 1902, the whaleback Thomas Wilson
departed the Duluth harbor with a cargo of iron ore.
The George Hadley, bound for Superior, collided
with her shortly after she entered the open Lake.
Mortally stricken just forward of the aft hatch, the
Wilson sank within three minutes, going down with
9 members of her 23 man crew still trapped within
her hull.
The minds of the apparitions that still linger here
Are still stirred bv the sight of a gorgeous woman.
They can still remember the gentle caress of a hand,
The warmth of an embrace, and the desperate need
That can only be sated by two bodies uniting as one.
Death hasn't diminished their desire...or longing.
On the afternoon of November 28th, 1905, the
Mataafa approached the Duluth Ship Canal. Raging
waves and an 80 mile an hour wind gust slammed
the ship against the North Pier and spun the bow
around 270 degrees. The Mataafa grounded in the
shallow water alongside the pier. The ship was
pounded by enormous waves for several hours while
the temperature plummeted to below zero. Thousands
of Duluthians watched as three sailors ran the length
of the ship from the bow to the stern and survival.
They watched one man turnback halfway, intimidated
by the enormous waves crashing upon him. 9 crewmen
froze to death that night while the city looked on
helplessly.
Ghosts gather to pay homage to her beauty.
Hands of dead sailors caress her breast.
Her nipples harden; she blames the breeze
That blows in cold off the lake, and wishes
She would have brought a towel to wrap around her.
A stoker from the Wilson imagines her
In his strong embrace, his whisker stubble
Rubbing raw against her face, then addresses
The futility of his desire with a sigh, and settles
For giving her a pat on her fine firm ass.
She doesn't feel it. She feels nothing but
A momentary twinge of loneliness, a longing
For something that she just can't put a finger on.
The night of April 28th, 1914, the grossly
overloaded freighter Benjamin Noble approached
the Duluth harbor during a nasty storm only
to discover that one of the pier lights had been
shattered by a huge wave. Unable to gauge which
light it was, and remembering what had happened
to the Mataafa when she had met disaster
near the pier.
Master John Eisenhardt turned his ship
north toward Two Harbors.
The Noble was never heard from again.
The shade of one of the Noble's young crewmen
Approaches her reverently, then reaches out to
Touch a wisp of hair that the breeze tugs at.
When she reaches up to brush it back into place
He drifts away in a phantasmagoric fluster.
Too shy to approach a woman in life,
Death has left him still as socially inept.
The gorgeous woman turns and resumes her slow
Languorous stroll along the beach. The ghosts
Of Gitchee Gumee dead step back to let her pass,
Still eying her with desire tempered with reverence.
She's approaching me. I set down my book
On Lake Superior shipwrecks, and bestow
Upon her my own longing gaze of admiration.
I fail to elicit a response. I'm as invisible to
And just as intimidated by the sight of
This wondrous Nordic goddess of beauty
As the apparitions of the doomed deckhands.
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