I feel like a high school girl spending the last week of summer with a boyfriend who's heading off to university in the fall. The young lovers spend every moment together, memorizing the lines of each other's body, the pitch of a laugh, never wanting to be far apart whether they're doing something or nothing at all. It feels just like that, except the object of my affection is a boat. In about four or five days, the boat will come out of the water for the winter. Every morning I languish in bed a bit longer than necessary, knowing I'll be waking up without her soon, on land, in a bed that doesn't rock and sway. And when I get up in the morning then, no one will yell across the dock to invite me over for breakfast. My morning pee will take place 10 steps from my bed, not running down a dock with my legs crossed to the warm bathroom trailer. This afternoon, I dozed in the sunny cockpit listening to Stuart Maclean on the CBC, feeling every story was precious. Not because I'll never listen to Stuart Maclean again, but because it will never be this moment again, with my boat, and the dogs on their sides in the sun. It's hard to keep me on land for any amount of time right now. Leaving the boat is time I'm not spending with her, time wasted. And I'm disproportionately happy when I come back to the boat, even after a few short hours away. Regular chores make me maudlin. Is this the last time I'll fill her water tank before it's over? Is this the last time I'll spray dirt off her sagging aft deck? Oh, how I'll miss scrubbing seagull shit off her wide bow. Indeed, I have been reduced to a lovesick teenager by an old boat made of fibreglass, faded vinyl and rough wood.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The drama of the brokenhearted
I feel like a high school girl spending the last week of summer with a boyfriend who's heading off to university in the fall. The young lovers spend every moment together, memorizing the lines of each other's body, the pitch of a laugh, never wanting to be far apart whether they're doing something or nothing at all. It feels just like that, except the object of my affection is a boat. In about four or five days, the boat will come out of the water for the winter. Every morning I languish in bed a bit longer than necessary, knowing I'll be waking up without her soon, on land, in a bed that doesn't rock and sway. And when I get up in the morning then, no one will yell across the dock to invite me over for breakfast. My morning pee will take place 10 steps from my bed, not running down a dock with my legs crossed to the warm bathroom trailer. This afternoon, I dozed in the sunny cockpit listening to Stuart Maclean on the CBC, feeling every story was precious. Not because I'll never listen to Stuart Maclean again, but because it will never be this moment again, with my boat, and the dogs on their sides in the sun. It's hard to keep me on land for any amount of time right now. Leaving the boat is time I'm not spending with her, time wasted. And I'm disproportionately happy when I come back to the boat, even after a few short hours away. Regular chores make me maudlin. Is this the last time I'll fill her water tank before it's over? Is this the last time I'll spray dirt off her sagging aft deck? Oh, how I'll miss scrubbing seagull shit off her wide bow. Indeed, I have been reduced to a lovesick teenager by an old boat made of fibreglass, faded vinyl and rough wood.
