I bind my boat to the shore, to the anchor point that will keep it safely in the harbour until conditions are fair enough to sail once more. I wrap the rope as my grandfather showed me how, though that was so very long ago. It's a memory made from watching him in awe, feeling the movement of his weathered hands as if they were my own, then trying it for myself. My hands move as if they were his, the decades between nothing at all, feeling the texture and the movement it takes to make the so knot fast and true.
Upon the sand is a boat, so still upon golden waves. She is every colour Leon loves so much, every hue of pastel that brings the seafront to mind. Her paint is flaked, showing the colours of yesteryear, revealing them so that they may dance in the sunlight once more. He lets his fingers mover over her surface, taking in each imperfection, all of which add to her beauty.
My boat is called "Oasis," for that is what she is. Though this salt water breathes life for my brothers below; I cannot drink a drop. And so, upon the seas she keeps me alive, breathing air, seeing sun. I feel her rock beneath bare feet, her keel upon the boundary of our world and theirs. For now, there is nought to do but await the horizon, take note of the terrain that comes, chart a new course if need be.
This boat that is my land amid the water, is as bright as the last berry of summer. In this brine that is the playground of dolphins and the sanctuary of whales, I am rocked as a baby in loving arms. I feel wind, gusting with the tempo of a fiddle, dancing with long and short bows, punctuated by soulful silence. I watch the billowed sail, rippling the same as water around, always ready to propel us onward. Under this rising sun I have watched the mast shadow grow and fade, yet it is a pale form of darkness and nothing at all to compare to brilliance of stars in the night. And as we bob here, the boat and me, I remember what Grandpa would say, "There may be shadows in the sunlight, my love, but there will always be stars at night."
All that was visible of the boat was the blue rim a few inches above the water line. No-one could be seen inside but from the up-ended oars Getty assumed there was someone sleeping inside, keeping the boat weighed down instead of bobbing on the waves.
Upon the sand was a boat no bigger than one of the rowers there used to be on the lake, the oars placed inside like chopsticks after dinner. Behind it was the drag marks, half erased by the waves. Against the pale yellow of the grains the wood was dark, varnished to a deep mahogany.
Then as if by divine command a boat appeared on the horizon, glistening in the sunrise. They watched it make a steady approach, the outline of the yacht becoming more clear every moment.
The boat was straight out of a child's picture book. It was part of a small fishing fleet that launched from the pebble beach, painted in stripes of blue, red and white. A mast poked into the misty morning sky as the sail hung loose to the deck.
The boat was from the war but converted as a day cruiser. The tourists would pile on in wild floral prints, cameras at the ready, shoes loud on the tinny deck. The engine would roar to life with Ted at the helm and it would chug out into the harbour.
The boat was an old timer, a veteran of the brine. The old planks retained the odour of the fish even after a storm. Yet she was sound, seaworthy enough to take to the waters at dawn with nets bundled onto the deck.
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