She stands, propped up in the gravel lot outside the boatyard fence. The keel holds her high, steel tripods balance her fore and aft. She looks homemade; a sailor’s dream designed old-style on a drafting board with T-square, compass, and a slide rule. Wood planked, her lines are sharp; the piercing bow, squared cabin and angled stern. She stands straight and tall, contemptuous of the softly rounded fiberglass beauties in neat rows within the confines of the gated marine works behind her.
She is in need of a good scraping, scrubbing, caulking, and painting; superficial, cosmetic work at best. However, she is abandoned. Yet even in this obvious rejection, she refuses to deny her glory. There is no sag in her beam; her windows fully in tact, stare straight into the morning sunlight.
Her demise is in sight. The blue dumpster lays waiting behind her. It won’t be long and the chain saw crew will arrive to chop her into hunks. I have seen the process. A crew dressed in county issue red overalls does the work. An armed officer oversees them. Crew and supervisors are an unenthusiastic group. I doubt they will appreciate her beauty. I doubt they will pause even a second before they smash in windows. I doubt they will feel any pang of regret as they hunk off the sharp point of her bow.
I felt melancholy catch in my throat as I passed her on my walk today. I could not help but speak to her. I told her, “My dear, I hope the dreams designed into your prow were fulfilled: the races won, the children delighted, and the sunsets holy. The voyages were ones of high spirits and laughter. The adventures imprinted on all of those who walked your decks. I know you protected your crew in rough seas, cut straight into heavy weather, slicing the oncoming waves leaving them powerless in your wake.” She stood motionless and refused to stoop to respond, but I know she knows.
When her time comes, I will not watch, I am not brave enough. Her decommissioning will be violent. I am thinking they will probably just push her over on her side and begin the carving. Several crewmembers with screaming chain saws will take the big bites; transom, deck, cabin and bow. Others with axes and shovels will take care of the small pieces. An agile knobby-wheeled front loader will dump buckets full of her now splintered hull into the dumpster. In a few hours there will be nothing left but the empty space she once occupied…
… and the wind.
She is in need of a good scraping, scrubbing, caulking, and painting; superficial, cosmetic work at best. However, she is abandoned. Yet even in this obvious rejection, she refuses to deny her glory. There is no sag in her beam; her windows fully in tact, stare straight into the morning sunlight.
Her demise is in sight. The blue dumpster lays waiting behind her. It won’t be long and the chain saw crew will arrive to chop her into hunks. I have seen the process. A crew dressed in county issue red overalls does the work. An armed officer oversees them. Crew and supervisors are an unenthusiastic group. I doubt they will appreciate her beauty. I doubt they will pause even a second before they smash in windows. I doubt they will feel any pang of regret as they hunk off the sharp point of her bow.
I felt melancholy catch in my throat as I passed her on my walk today. I could not help but speak to her. I told her, “My dear, I hope the dreams designed into your prow were fulfilled: the races won, the children delighted, and the sunsets holy. The voyages were ones of high spirits and laughter. The adventures imprinted on all of those who walked your decks. I know you protected your crew in rough seas, cut straight into heavy weather, slicing the oncoming waves leaving them powerless in your wake.” She stood motionless and refused to stoop to respond, but I know she knows.
When her time comes, I will not watch, I am not brave enough. Her decommissioning will be violent. I am thinking they will probably just push her over on her side and begin the carving. Several crewmembers with screaming chain saws will take the big bites; transom, deck, cabin and bow. Others with axes and shovels will take care of the small pieces. An agile knobby-wheeled front loader will dump buckets full of her now splintered hull into the dumpster. In a few hours there will be nothing left but the empty space she once occupied…
… and the wind.
1 comment:
She'll live on in the dreams of those she carried, and in your witness of her beauty and power. Such a bittersweet piece, Mary - the perfect reminder that all things die, except for love. Very strong writing here, my friend.
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