She just lay there peacefully tethered but surely wishing to be untethered. So beautiful. A whiteness that blended with yellowish hues of sunlight bouncing off galloping clouds far above her.
Resting on seacoast gingerbread her soft, delicate bones still managed to throw off just a caricature of shade.
Her creator prays the Rosary regularly. There can be no other possible inspiration for the Marian blue lovingly layered on her graceful thwarts. The gunwales were elegant, her draft modest.
The boat, seaworthy, awaits the tide patiently like a dutiful dog peering out with sad eyes. Oh, if this boat had eyes would she be sad? Maybe not. She would be glad to receive the affections of a beholder. Unlike her though, I am impatient as I imagine encountering her. I am thinking of peering out to the sea to glean the tentative flows of a returning ocean. I know the tide would slide voluminous sheets of water back toward me. But when?
The mossy green sheen encapsulating pilings supporting the dock will bracket her against the surge of ocean that surely will arrive soon. Hopefully, this will occur without violence, rather with gentleness – a caress ushering in a soft rise in her, an awakening.
The surge will be determined by the moon. The worst would come if the face is full.
I wish I could look into the eyes of her creator so I could gain the discernment that sponsored the craft to construct her. I urge to scratch a thumbnail into her painted bow to determine whether Okume or Khay – plywood creations of man – outline her corpus.
My curiosity is awash with the delightful notion that possibly natural wood may have been used instead. How I wish to return to those places where trees, which may have formed her, rise up appearing as stoic statues in cathedrals perched on sheer edges of western mountainous cirques: mahogany, spruce, white oak, western red cedar and the veritable Douglas fir.
How envious I am of builders who can create small boats. They are carpenters who can fasten wood, form joints, use glue like paint and shape shapes like Michaelangelo did when he sheared off chunks of marble to liberate David hidden from within a massive block.
My pent-up anticipation to board her is registering a faint note of joy. The breeze has picked up. The seagulls feast on the remaining living delicacies embedded in sodden mud. There is an emerging distant report of accumulating waves organizing their landings
Soon I will release her. The knotty cordon slipped lovingly on a ring upon her bow will be let loose. Just as Jesus released the faithful servant’s ass to carry him on Palm Sunday I will nudge her outward. Just as He made a glorious entry into Jerusalem, I will enter my promised land composed of salty water, balmy sea breeze and pollen free air.
Carry me, little boat. Carry me away!
Joe D’Amore leads contemplative hikes in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and on Cape Cod for the Appalachian Mountain Club. He writes “ The Outward View” for North Of Boston Media Group. You can reach him at damorecos@gmail.com.