HMS maverick was the ship’s name and, according to the map, they were about 300 miles from Maryland. The beauty of the mauve sky made the ship’s crew manage their tasks with gaiety and without malice.
As they drew closer, the shoreline shimmered magically on the horizon, the very tops of the maples blurry and matted. Master Mapo, the captain’s first mate, made the rounds and uncoiled a rope that was mangled, perhaps due to the bite marks of a man o war.
Mapo had married in Mali at a young age, but, since then, had managed to relocate and make his way as a ship’s mate. It was a good match, except for the manic work and persistent meals of manioc. Mapo wouldn’t let those malodorous meals mar his experience. No.
As the Maverick floated in towards Maryland, the crew deftly managing the sails on the mast, manatees floating beside the ship in the mashing of the waves. A mandarin orange was unpeeled and masticated as the Maverick maneuvered into the bay. The map marked where the camp known as New Manchester lied just ahead past the mangroves.
Maybe they’d see the mystical manager in person, the maven of this little peninsula. Magically craggy rocks maintained the channel for maritime transport. Manchesterians made a living making and exporting maple syrup. It was marvelous.
THE MOSSY BOG 