Dear Readers,
I don't often
share short stories in this space, but below is a work of fiction,
written recently for a coastal magazine. I hope you enjoy it.
The Boat
by G. E.
Shuman
The
crudely-penciled words, written on a folded, faded scrap of paper,
were those of a young child. While I, at first, had no clue as to
their meaning, I marveled at the fact that these were probably my own
father's words, and thoughts, from long ago.
I had found
the aged note in the bottom of an elderly, homemade fishing tackle
box, which I knew had once been Dad's. The note had lain flat on the
bottom of the small wooden case, under a well-used hand fishing line
still wound on it's stick frame, for many years. In fact, nearly
three quarters of a century had passed since Dad's boyhood, and the
box had come to me, by chance or by plan, in the things handed down
from his estate.
“the star
where we fish
143 big steps
Aunt M can't
get
I will when
bigger
my flag too
Caught 3
today,”
stated the
note. Under the words was a child's drawing of a boat, and one of an
American flag.
It didn't take
me long to make the connection. The hand line was more than a clue.
Our family has been visiting the Rockland Maine breakwater each
summer for my entire life. Dad had spent the summers of his own
early youth in that great town, visiting his uncle Charlie and Aunt
Marian. His favorite pastime while there was line fishing for rock
bass out on that great granite breakwater. I had even heard his
story many times, of losing his boat and the flag Uncle had given him
one sunny July fourth.
I drove, the
very next day, to Rockland, and to that old breakwater. While
feeling a bit foolish, I started on shore, and carefully counted 143
big paces out onto the thing, looking closely for some star shaped
crack or mark in the rock as I neared the end of my counting. To my
great disappointment, I found none; nothing that even slightly
resembled a star. Thinking I might have miscounted, I returned to
the shore, and began again. Truthfully, in admission, I counted
those steps at least three more times that sunny June day, only to be
disappointed, three more times.
I eventually
found myself sitting on shore, late that afternoon, windburned and
heartbroken. Taking Dad's note from my pocket I thought it ironic
that this was not the first time the fragile shred of paper had
visited this, my very favorite coastal spot in the world. Long ago a
young child had held it as he walked this very path. “Wait a
minute,” I said under my breath. “He was... a young child.”
This was the first time it had dawned on me that my father's legs
were once smaller than my own, and that his “143 big steps” were
very different from mine.
At that
moment, by chance or by plan, another gift came to me, this time in
the form of a young family, poles in hand, heading down the shoreline
path, toward the breakwater. There, with his parents, was a boy of
about six or seven years, equipped with a small child's legs, and
feet, and all. I wasted no time in asking them my strange favor,
and they agreed to let me walk with them.
Little Michael
had fun helping me count his steps to 143, to a spot where, to my
near disbelief, five granite pieces did fit roughly together, meeting
at what could be taken as a star-shaped hole. After thanking my new
young friend for his help, I first knelt, and then lay flat on the
rough stones. Even as I watched Michael's family walk away, I
carefully stretched my arm way down as far as I could reach, into
that weathered crack. My heart nearly stopped as my fingers first
touched, and then retrieved what will always be my most prized
possession; a terribly rusted tin toy lobster boat, with the remains
of a small American flag still stuffed inside.
