On a sunny summer Sunday free from gale or doldrum, a forest moors beside the sea, of mast and spar and rope, Almost all with motors and capable of sail, tethered to their docks, they bob on rising tide. Sometimes, with canvas coiled, one backs into an aisle, turns toward the seawall— a skipper’s cap on anxious head. He senses southwest onshore, sets a southward tack, cuts the noisy motor, turns about to miss the jetty. He sways beside the tiller, feels the water’s grace, tightens jib and mainsail, conforms to wind and wave. The other seamen mow the lawn or fight with wife and kids. . . or sit depressed and watch TV, or contemplate their options. their small-craft squeak within the slips, pull tethered on this glorious day; for status’ sake they join the forest and serve as choices earned.