Blessing of the Fleet

The Madonna looked less than amused as she swayed in time to the steps of the six men who carried her aloft down Hart Street towards the river and the waiting fleet. This was no solemn affair but a spectacle played out to attract the favor of a power moved by pageantry and theatre. No puritanical restraint paraded here. Crowds lined the way. Half the number were Italians who cheered and gave full throat to their passions and the pride in planting a cutting of their culture to root in the shores of a new home. This was the sixties. Their infectious spill swamped the normally staid order of the working class precinct and set something exciting loose. The other half, local Anglo stock, kept their distance and a firm grip on exuberant display, harboring approval within the limits of a broad smile and a self conscious clap. Emotions were only let out on Saturdays to support the local football team when even the meekest could become rabid. The Blessing of the Fleet still plays out each year, largely unchanged, though kept afloat by increasingly secular sentiments, and sways its way through a crowd now more a singular chorus of noise and hard to seperate. Fishing boats festooned in flags blaze triumphant under a bright September sun.