Because ice boating is a little bit of sailing, a lot of building, and mostly talking.
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ICE FEVER by Jory Squibb
November creeps -- the days grow short--and there's a fever that starts to rise
The symtoms come, the face grows glum, as I scan the bleak fall skies
I check the gear, I check the temps, look over the maps and scheme
How many miles to Thetford Mines, or to hike to Sterling's gleam?
I must get out on a lake again, and sound ice black or white
And feel the moan of a winter wind, that cuts like a whetted knife
I miss my buddies tried and true, and the tales we love to tell
when Sebago froze from shore to shore, and we sailed like bats from hell
I long to put on a boiler suit and insert my heat packs right
To check my spikes on the old ice boots and pull my face mask tight
Then clip the "claws" around my neck and grab my ice axe true
and step so light on that glistening black and pray that I won't break through
I must touch that clear black gold again, with bubbles and view below
with its barks and groans and cracks that shoot like an arrow from nature's bow
I must leave this house and it endless chores, this life both love and bore
And seek again those open skies and spread my wings once more.