Albany Bay

Rugged southern ocean bay,

It’s a place of sailing joy,

Yet, a place of blowhole madness.

It’s a place to remember

the sad songs of slaughtered whales,

It is a bay of stories and histories maritime,

A place of respect and a Nyoongar ‘place of rain’.

To the traditional owners that left their marks

and the mammals whose blood poured

over the rocks,

Albany bay is how

I remember you today.






Ever felt the power of the waves

as they lurch menacingly towards you?

Hike! As the boat tips dangerously,

on a knife edge – at tipping point,

Swaying to-and-fro in the rhythmic swell.

Frankie ploughs in through the spray

getting soaked throughout the day!

Outshining the foaming white horses

as they gallop away!

Frankie sails on with the wind in tow

rolling and heeling where no boat dare go.




Frank, our Mower

Watch him speed. see him glide

Frank R. Dymes, sailing wide.

Rocking back, to and fro

approaching the zone called a NO-GO!

Ever sailed a boat called Frank

Sailing our, far from the bank?

Of course not, you can’t say you have!

Pot of gold, rarest gun

Old Frankie, there is only one.

Teaching sailors from afar

Frank R. Dymes, you are a star!

Afternoon sun, low in the sky

Frankie, our Mower, continues to fly!

Times up now, coming in-

Face old Frankie into the wind.







Did you ever see such a sailing vessel –


Especially the one and only Frank?

Even if you have you’ll never know all its secrets;


Prying spiders crawl from the depths -giving you a jump scare as you prepare.


Splashing waves hit you like sand dunes;


Even as we sail to shore, the boat rocks and sways some more.


And as we approach the jetty again, spiders are seen scuttling back into cracks.


Longing for the shore we sail swiftly back,


Away from the course we had sailed around,


Weathering each and every wave.


Nattering arguments begin to cease,


Making it back to the ramp, we leap-


Onward and up the ramp, yes!


When our feet touch dry land again, ah!


Entering the boat-filled lawn,


Rigging comes down on our salty sailboat,


Spraying it off with a hose – returning Frank to where he was parked before the adventure.


Kiselle’s acrostic poem