The Wooden Ship

In the very beginning it wasn't even aware of itself.  It was new and smelled like a lumber yard.  In what seemed like no time at all, it took on the fragrance of varnish, and it felt the sensation of floating, perhaps it was a combination of the mild movement of the water and the fumes from the varnish, it wasn't sure but the sun felt good and its bones were getting stronger.

The day the sails were installed I would have to say was the day she awoke completely.  Suddenly she knew she was a sailing ship and you couldn't see it, but she was smiling.

 

In the months that followed brass fittings were installed, glass polished and a final coat of varnish applied to railings.  She was the gem of the marina and was photographed from every possible angle.  Colorful flags were strung and banners announced her début.

 

She was enjoying the attention but longed for the open water.  She couldn’t wait until the day she could catch the breath that would push her through the rolling waves and she would feel the salt spray along her sides.  Already she was tired of watching the others head out to sea in the morning, leaving her quietly moored, sitting alone until sunset when she would spot the colorful sails dotting the horizon, making their return.

 

She was not an orphan for long, however.  A family took to her as if she were candy.  The children ran across her deck, up and down.  They hung from the rails as if she was a jungle gym, and the laughter came in constant waves.  She wanted to show them all what she could do out there, but he seemed timid, unsure of how to be a sailor, almost afraid to let the shore slip from view.

 

Over time the family would venture farther and farther from home, but the tone of the conversations had changed.  Something was wrong.  Laughter from the children was almost nonexistent, and arguments lit like distress flares, suddenly blanketing the area in uncomfortable silence.   Some of the storms were so great that even the ship herself felt she might not weather them.

 

As a teenager the wooden ship knew she was still in her prime.  Her sails still crisp and white, her hull was sound, but her spirit felt somewhat tattered.  Concerned for the family that no longer showed up on weekends and holidays she remained tied to her slip, quietly waiting, hoping for a return to the adventurous spirit that would take her out to sea, and far from the doldrums of safety.

 

It was a Saturday morning, early August when he returned, although by himself.  He spent the day removing things from cabinets, taking coolers from on deck and setting them onto the pier.  He cleaned the glass and wiped the entire deck.  He checked the ropes, making sure all sails were secure, and then had placed something on her stern, though she couldn’t tell what.

 

By late evening he and all the family belongings were gone.  She sat quietly rocking in her slip as she had when she was new.  Wondering just what he had done at the stern. She looked to the Lynn Ann, a wonderful ship moored directly in front of her.  That’s it, she though; He’s given me a name.  She was excited but also frustrated at not knowing what it was.

 

When the tide comes in, she thought, I’ll rise high enough to see my reflection in the large windows of the marina manager’s building.  And so she waited, but by the time the tied had lifted her high enough the sun had set.  She could see nothing in the dark.

 

The following day, once the thought of her name had again returned, she glanced back at the windows of the marina building.  As she focused on her reflection she tried to pronounce her name.  Was it Greek?  Italian?  She wasn't sure.    

                 Rofelas