A Sail for all Seasons

“Come on, Dexter! The car’s packed and ready!”

“Mom,” the little boy moaned, pulling sullenly at the sailboat’s oars. “Can’t I go around one more time?”

“You’ve had the whole summer, sweetie,” the mom stopped at the water’s edge and crossed her arms. “Dock the boat and let’s go. Your father wants to be home before his conference call.”

“Fine,” Dexter hung his head, secured the oars, and furled the single sail. The sail wasn’t doing him any good today with so little wind on their corner of the lake, but it always made him feel like a pirate off on exciting adventures, a box of treasure never far off. Picking up the oars again, he slowly navigated the boat back to the dock.

He came alongside the dock and the little wooden boat bumped against the single fender—what happened to the other one? He tossed the rope once around the dock’s cleat. Carefully placing his hands on the dock to avoid another sliver, he hauled himself up…and banged his knee on the dock.

“Mom!” the boy howled and clutched his knee.

The mom swooped down and helped the boy to stand. The two awkwardly took the short path to the rental home and stopped at the shiny car waiting in the drive, its engine humming softly.

The voices of the family drifted down to the dock and the lonely boat. Gravel crunched, the electric gate slid closed, and all was quiet again.

Ripples disturbed the water’s surface as fish flicked their tails and bugs skated across the shallows. Twilight came and frogs and cicadas took up their songs and lights from the neighboring homes danced in sparkling ribbons out onto the water.

Laughter, music, and the sound of clinking bottles echoed around the cove as the night deepened and stars gradually dotted the sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the raucous celebrating turned to murmurs, a stiff breeze whipped at the lingering people, and the little boat slipped free of its berth.

~ ~ ~

 The storm lasted well into the next day. Rain fell steadily. It overflowed birdbaths, plinked off closed grills, soaked lawn furniture cushions, crushed the last summer blooms, and pushed the remaining vacationers back to their cities and suburbs. 

The little boat twirled and coasted its way out of the cove, across the midst of the watery depths, and straight into a tangle of fallen trees near a small cabin which rested almost on the lake’s edge.

The boat filled with water until it barely floated and at last the rain stopped, the sun shone, and herons perched on its prow to watch for passing fish.

Squirrels chased along the boat’s crooked mast and the still-leafy limbs. The creature’s chitters and twitching tails continued even as the leaves crisped, dropped, and scattered the surface of the water.

“Look at this view, sis!” an artist called from the nearby cabin’s balcony. “This is the kind of inspiration you can’t get in town. See the way those leaves cover everything like a…a blanket of nature’s own design. The shadow of the limbs upon the fallen leaves is achingly desperate, as though it yearns for its former green glory. The proud canopy shielded those below it and now that winter approaches it must…”

“Did you bring the macaroni?” his sister’s voice called through the open balcony door.

The artist dropped his raised arms and rolled his eyes. “No, I did not bring the boxed macaroni. I thought we were going to cook from scratch?”

“Ugh,” the sister exited the house, a bag of chips clutched in one hand. “That’s what Mike and I used to do. Can’t we order in?” she pulled out a chip, shoved it into her mouth and maneuvered it around until she could easily crush it. “Hey. Is that a boat?” she pointed one salty finger at the forgotten vessel.

The artist gasped and pulled out a sketch book. Pencil skimming furiously across the paper, he quickly captured the little wreck held fast by the limbs. “Gahhh!” he ripped the paper out and crumpled it. “We have to free it. I must see how it rests in the water.” He scurried down the balcony’s steps and strode along the rocky shore.

Heedless of the twigs, spears of broken limbs and the slimy rocks under his bare feet, he struggled, bailed, tugged, pushed and shouted the boat free. When at last it floated opposite his private beach, he raced back and forth on the shore, pencil working, voice muttering, and balls of paper dropping like the leaves.

“The shadows. It’s all in the shadows,” the sister heard as she sat on the steps and steadily ate the remaining chips.

At last he looked up at her, his hair on end, smudges of pencil lead somehow on his arms and face, a manic grin lighting his eyes. “I’ve got it,” he said.

“Good,” she said, licking her fingers clean. “‘Cause the boat’s floating away and the pizza will be here soon.”

~ ~ ~

Dying leaves clogged the shore as autumn wore on. Reflections that once were orange, burgundy, scarlet, and gold turned brown and empty as the skeletal remains of trees hovered over quiet waters. Flocks migrated farther south as maintenance crews repaired the houses and their properties after a busy season. Owners shouted with the contractors as leaf blowers droned incessantly along every driveway. Trash lay piled on corners and more leaves drifted down, followed by rains and biting wind.

The boat sailed by all of this: a silent and impartial viewer to the passing of life and all the choices that wracked the living. It weathered all the storms with good grace, and although birds’ nests, gouges, rot and algae slowly decorated it, and the sail hung in a desultorily fashion, each sunrise and sunset painted the little vessel in colors no one could hope to recreate, a beauty everlasting as it continued its voyage.

Near the closing of the year, it gently beached itself by one of the grander houses whose shining windows and new shingles contrasted starkly with the humble boat. The temporary owners took turns throwing glass bottles into its bottom, hooting when they missed or a projectile shattered in a particularly impressive way.

“Aim higher, man,” one partier chided his companion, taking a swig from his nearly empty bottle. “Like this,” and he chucked his bottle off the balcony and watched it arc and crash onto the shore, a few feet shy of the target. “You get the idea, man. Loft it, like a…uh…a basketball.” He nodded, reached for the bowl of corn chips, and scooped up a hefty serving of salsa. “So, like, are you and Sheila dating?” He stuffed his mouth with the chip and quickly followed it with a lukewarm breaded mozzarella stick.

“I dunno. I thought it was working, but she says I don’t listen to her and it’s throwing off her Zen, or something,” the companion took careful aim before spinning his bottle at warp speed toward the boat. It nicked the bow and spun into darkness. He waved the failure off and wolfed down a few cheese sticks. “I thought I might take her on a trip to the mountains.”

“That could go wrong on so many levels,” the partier chuckled.

“You’re probably right. But I wanna do something nice for her; show her that I do care, that we can make it work.”

“Let me know how that goes. I’m still on the rocks with my girl, though I did call my brother to come fix her toilet. The guy’s an ace with that rubber thing on a stick. The…um…plunger,” the partier ate a few more chips.

“You gotta give me his number; my shower’s making this grinding noise. But hey, you wanna go inside? Looks like they’re pouring drinks,” the companion picked up the plate with the remaining cheese and they entered the brightly lit house.

~ ~ ~

Sirens and fireworks shrieked out across the inky water and in the early dawn, a dusting of snow settled over the broken bottles and discarded confetti. Red plastic cups and champagne corks floated under balconies and bobbed around docked pontoon boats and modest yachts. The robins pecked at pizza crusts and disgruntled cleaning crews scrubbed walls, floors, toilets and sent expensive rugs to the cleaners. The local handyman patched holes in the sheetrock, checked ice machines, and played billiards while he waited for the owner to finish grabbing the stray bottles from seemingly every foot of the beach, yelling at the mess as though it could reply.

The little boat received a vicious kick from one such frustrated owner and soon found itself once more on the lake where only the gentle lapping of water and peaceful silence of mid-winter accompanied it. It found its own form of hibernation as the snow came and smothered the damage in a fluffy covering. Small birds raced across the pristine surface, their feet barely leaving a mark.

~ ~ ~

Icicles dripped, snow dropped off spruce boughs, and rivulets of melted snow gurgled down hills and into the lake. Daffodils burst open and tufts of new grass sprouted up to join the overeager dandelions. The bright greens of renewal and cheery pink blossoms in the local orchards prompted the returning people to shed their thermal wear and take up leisurely activities like gardening, knitting, bird watching…and repairing boats.

“She’s had a few knocks,” a grandpa critically eyed his new project. Bending over, he plucked a crushed beer can, clumps of rotting leaves and twigs, and shards of glass out of the little boat. “Still, some new boards and sanding, a fresh sail, and a nice coat of paint will see her aright. Isn’t that so, Betty?” he looked over his shoulder at his wife.

Betty, her attention fixed on the latest domestic thriller book, nodded noncommittally and slurped from her glass of iced tea.

The grandpa smiled and shook his head. She might not be interested in this unexpected treasure, but his grandson would be.

Boards, paint, sanders, nails, rope and canvas acquired, he made a phone call.

“Dexter, son. I’ve got just the thing for your upcoming visit. Don’t bother bringing your fancy gadgets. You and me are gonna fix a boat.”