Crossing the Equator

by Tony Noon

Old Stoker told me often.
Sometimes I asked him
about the plank bending
long to the line
bending out over the deep

They don’t tar your balls.
He told me
No pallid painters’ rite here.

Blindfold, sea legs turn rubber
on this narrow path
as you shuffle to the drop.

Three feet later hard deck
and the roar of seamen
make the novice able bodied

If his heart does not give out.