“How often do boats like this ever sink?”, the boy asked.
“Usually just the once,” his father replied.
I used to do some boating
when I was a kid.
The summer I was fifteen,
Dad pulled a little runabout
out of eight feet of murky water.
Over the winter,
my father spent all his spare time
in the unheated garage,
sanding and polishing,
buffing and caressing
every inch of that wooden vessel.
Still remember the expression
on my old man’s face
when we launched the Misty Lady;
the look of pride
when the forty-horsepower Mercury engine
coughed to a start.
“Here,” Dad said one day,
“take it for a spin yourself.”
With that, he stepped out of the boat.
Starting off was no problem.
He pushed one way
and I pushed the other.
Within an admiral’s heartbeat,
I was zigging and zagging,
zagging and zigging
across my own wake
at top speed.
Moments later.
Docking needs work.
Still remember the expression
on my old man’s face
as I turned the dock of the Crab Basket
on Candlewood Bay
into a takeout window.
Boys and their toys.
Po’boys.
Sun setting.
Only the ocher glow of twilight remains.
Your hand presses firmly
against the throttle.
Your pace quickens
as the sleek hull slices
across the waves.
The water is new every day.
Power has never felt this good.
You’re almost there.
Getting closer.
Just around the next curve.
Closer.
Another adventure comes to an end.
Real close now.
Feel it.
Touch it.
WATCH OUT FOR THE DOCK!!!