boats - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Every boat on the ocean was as bright as the riot of new flowers adorning the hillside. They were so pretty that when the fleet set out to the rising sun we watched every bit as bewitched as a groom at the alter. As they bobbed onward to the fishing grounds, we sent out our prayer for safe return and only then did the day begin.
With sails that billowed in the autumnal wind, the boats sailed by. Each one was a white flag against the blue, as clean as the clouds above. Their hulls were all shades of fire, from burnt orange to crimson, and they broke the waves with a bobbing motion, white water cresting at the bows.
Those old harbour boats only drank the ocean, no wonder they were still thirsty - drinking in the brine until the boards warped dark and wavy. Always as we passed Erik would scamper over with that instant grin of his to feel the texture of that soft wood. Come summer time the boats would be lighter, more like the whitened planks that get left at high tide and left to bake in the sun - showing themselves for the skeletons they truly are.
The man called Garcia had a boat that had known the sea too long. It wheezed and spluttered out of the harbor, trailing a cloud of evil-smelling black smoke. Rust had rippled and then burst through every surface like some bad skin disease. The boat had no visible name. A few flags fluttered from a mast, but they were little more than rags, with any trace of their original color faded long ago.
The boats had sat there for time out of mind, listing and rusting. The hulls let in the water and the fish that swam in the broad estuary. Cory threw a pebble just to hear it clang before plopping into the water before turning and heading for home.
The boats were scattered over the harbour like fall leaves in a pond. The colours were beautiful, random, bringing forth echoing memories from Emile's childhood spent on the shore. He rocked back on his worn heels, hands deep in his jeans as he cast weary eyes into the wintry onshore breeze. The boats bobbed on the waves, turning a little as they did in their chaotic dance. The fishermen were home long ago, as should he be; but he wasn't ready to cast this scene to memory just yet. He wanted it to be his present for a while longer, to fill his senses. The cold air brought salt to his lips, the cry of the gulls that wheeled overhead in their lazy arcs filled his ears and the pebbles shifted underfoot. No music could be finer for Emile, the symphony of colour, taste and sound could not be replicated on a CD or in a photograph. He would only move from the spot once the daylight robbed him of the scene, stealing the colours and replacing them only with charcoal.
It was one of the most beautiful boats he had ever seen, not the sleek white-and-fiberglass style of so many of the cruisers he had seen moored around Miami. This boat wasn't even modern. It was called Mayfair Lady and was an Edwardian classic motor yacht, eighty years old, like something out of a black-and-white film. The boat was more than a hundred feet long with a single funnel rising over the center. The main salon was at deck level, just behind the bridge. A sweeping line of fifteen or more portholes suggested cabins and dining rooms below. The boat was cream colored with natural wood trimmings, a wooden deck, brass lamps under the canopies. A tall slender mast rose up at the front with a radar, it's one visible connection with the twenty-first century...
Found in Alex Rider, Skeleton Key, authored by .
Fishing boat, barnacled hull, coiled rope, gaily painted, salt encrusted, bow breaking waves, towing nets, seagulls cry and swoop for fish.