Night passage on the water

A tiny porch light marks the bearing.
Buoy markers rim the cross-channel:
I back out of the confines of the slip
Into the reflections of my navigation light
Turn, and head into the darkness, onto the ripples
That build in size as I accelerate, planing
At speed into the cross-chanel chop.
I switch on the spot light, searching for
The reflective buoy markers and head for the first.
I cannot anticipate the chop, as I cannot see it.
Nocturnal ducks scatter out of my way;
I take a few bugs on the face:
Except for the lurching chop, I drift in
Isolation from the planet, steering by stars
And the porch light flickering through the trees.