The Polly Woodside

The Polly Woodside

Marooned in her little lock

Sailing nowhere between the towering glass of the convention centre.

A story of times past: of a Melbourne thick as a forest with the masts of ships.

A huge body of esoteric knowledge: where to get to ‘know the ropes’ took on as much significance as it did for a bell ringer.

Top gallants and royals, gaskets, ratlines and belaying pins. Specialised skills in being aloft at night, pitching and yawing as you scramble, icy handed, to reduce sail.

Replaced by steam and a new lexicon: heads of steam and the vitality of an engineer.

Change Happens