102
I)AI~
TISAN REVIEW
The boat sat at a mooring about one hundred yards from the dock.
Usually my father rowed the dinghy out to it alone, quickly, with strong
strokes. But that morning he did everything for our benefit, with exag–
gerated slowness. He pointed out the correct nautical terms and talked
about currents and waves. He decided Ri cky should learn how to row,
so he left me on the dock while the two of them pushed off in the
dinghy . [ saw Ricky's skinny arms working as the oars dipped into the
water, moved a few inches forward then stopped, as if the water were
glue. On the next pass , the oars bounced across the top. The dinghy
drifted closer to th e dock. Speaking slowly and deliberately, my father
instructed Ricky on what to do. Ricky applied himself to the oars; still
the dinghy drifted aimlessly. An edge came into my father's voice. Then
he was yelling and waving his arms around. The boat rocked from side
to side. Ricky's face turned white and he dropped the oars. Finally my
father picked them up and, while Ricky sat there, rowed to the moor–
mg.
When the sailboat reached the dock, I handed over the canvas bag
with our lunch, then climbed carefully in and settled myself in the cock–
pit. We motored out of the harbor. My father gave Ricky the tiller and
went about setting out the lines: pulling some in, coiling others tight. As
he worked, he talked, his voice loud and bright. He told us about the
lines, which sail each one controlled, and how best to use it. I tried to
look interested. The boat wove from one side of the channel to the
other. "Just a little to the left," my father said, as we passed dangerously
close to a buoy. "That's it. That's my boy."
After we cleared the harbor, my father cut the motor. The sailboat
shuddered and seemed to come
to
a halt; then the wind caught the sail
and drove us across the lake. My father held a beer out to us in a silent
toast. "This is the life, isn 't it, kids?"
I
nodded and squirmed in my scat, which was made out of a nubby
hard plastic that chafed my legs. Sweat trickled down my neck. The sun
beat against the dark water and turned the mast into a dazzling silver
blade. Busy at the tiller, Ricky seemed to have forgotten that sailing
made him sick. Every now and then my father placed his hand gently
over his and made a tiny correction.
The wind pushed steadily against the sails. Gradually the shoreline re–
ceded into a blue mist on the horizon . The lake was enormous, like a
sea. A gull circled overhead and then, with a hesitation of wings,
perched on the railing near me. He must have been exhausted; perhaps he
had come from the other side of the lake. I reached my hand towards his
silky and shiny feathers, but my father stood up, his arms waving.
"Shoo!" he hollered.
In
a flurry of white and grey, the gull took off.
"That's all I need," my father said as he sat back down, "bird poop." [
