Old Boat, Old Man
Michael Petitte

It was almost sunrise and the air carried the wet scent of the misty morning after rain and the natural fragrance of trees. The captain marched barefoot down the splintered dock and took sight of his boat. It looked old and worn down, but the captain could not afford the repairs and he would think sometimes that it was better this way. “Gives it character,” he would say.
The boat’s white paint was flaking off revealing the exhausted wood below. Mildew had begun to form on the sides, and the tattered sail was stiff and stubborn. The captain knew that the time was coming when they would no longer be friends and felt relieved that now was not that time. He touched his feet lightly upon the deck and moved his wrinkled hands across the railing, watching a bit of himself fall into the bedrock with the chipped paint. The river had been dry for some time, but when a heavy rain would fall the captain would visit.
He brought a cigarette to his chapped lips and concentrated to light it with a steady hand. The fire ignited his features and showed the face of a man with glossy blue eyes, long white hair with a beard still showing streaks of brown, and a thoughtful grin. He wore off-white pants that were rolled half way up his calves and a light long sleeved black shirt that was flapping with the sail.
The sun had just begun to rise on the horizon and the captain saw the beams of light penetrating through the trees like thorns and felt it on his face. Then, peering over the side of the railing, he gazed down into the glimmering surface and saw his own reflection.
In the surface of the water, he saw himself as a young boy, the shifting reflection like layers of skin peeling away. Back then, his father taught him to listen to the sound of the river to find the places where the fish would be abundant.
The captain watched that boy in the water. Even if he shut his eyes, he could still remember the boy. He could still hear the river.
A bucket of fish, fresh and silver, squirmed in a bucket by the boy. His father looked at him. “We are fortunate to have this river. Without this river we would cease to exist. We could become old and tired.”
“What about the boat, Pa? Don’t we need it too?”
“Of course we do. Couldn’t do anything without it.”
The bird sounds and flickering light interrupted the captain’s thoughts. He looked up. A flock of sparrows darted across the sky toward the sun, and he shielded his eyes with his rusted hand. He wished to stay there forever. What would stop him from staying? This movement, this time, he thought to himself was his own.
He looked down again, peering over the side of the boat. Again he saw the boy’s face, his own.
Now the river was calling to the boy, tempting him into itself, capturing his attention and putting his body into a stasis. The boat was beaten with a rock, water began seeping in from below and the jolt sent the captain over the edge, satisfying the rivers thirst for life. He felt himself become a part of the water, moving with the relentless currents. The sudden shift of events put the boy into turmoil, and he began flailing his arms looking for a rhythm in the rush of water. There was no set direction the water was going, attacking him from all sides. He was thrown down, hitting his head on a rock and knocking him unconscious before his father could reach him. There was blood coming from his ears and a fear deep within his eyes.
It was then that a frustrated sadness welled up in the old man’s heart; he knew that he had no control over Mother Nature. She had left him nothing in the end, and he could not help but feel betrayed. How could he ever make himself believe her or listen to her ever again? He had heard voices in his head but could not make out any noise. The wind picked up and blew very hard and the man watched it blow the trees and felt it on his body. He tried to listen and make out the message it carried but there was no sound. He wondered if the boat was trying to listen as well. They were the best of friends, but while the boat gave him a place to sit, he gave it nothing. The river was dry.