The Sailboat

   I was beautiful when the carpenter was finished with me. He said so himself.

            “Look at this beauty,” he said to everyone who stepped foot in our modest workshop. “Isn’t she a beauty?” I blushed at the attention, but as every guest smiled and nodded at my gentle carpenter, I couldn’t help but agree with them. I was beautiful. Gleaming paint, flawless woodwork, sturdy build. I was a masterpiece.

            My carpenter was old when he first introduced me to water. Deep wrinkles creased his dark face, exaggerated by the wonderful joy that I gave him the moment I slipped into the tide of the ocean. His hair, which had been grey in the dimness of his workshop, gleamed a thick silver in the sun and its reflection in the water. That day was his happiest. He smiled at every inch of me that day. He breathed in the sight of me as much as he breathed in the now nostalgic scent of salty water. I loved my carpenter that day. I was glad to keep him bobbing up and down with the waves, reminding him of the days when younger knees and ankles had steadied themselves in the rhythm of the sea. That was the last day my carpenter and I sailed together.

            My carpenter visited me with hobbling legs one day. The next day he had a third leg under one arm. The next, he sat in a wheeled chair. The next, he was gone. My sweet carpenter was gone. I missed him, though I did not mourn him. I had heard his stories about the ocean in the clouds, where old sailors and fishermen are allowed to sail once they get their fill of the ocean here among land. I was glad that he was there, sailing perhaps another sailboat that would make him just as happy as I had.

            There was a time, uncounted by me, which I spent alone and dusty in my carpenter’s old workshop. Then came a day when shadows scuffled around the workshop and the old house right outside. They came and they cried and they crawled around our workshop, where they didn’t belong, muttering things about my carpenter that they never got right. After the crowd left, a man with a young nose that looked like my carpenter’s came alone. He came to look at me.

            “So you’re his beauty,” the young man whispered to me. I straightened, grasping the sound of the word that I hadn’t heard in so long. Though it was odd in this man’s mouth: sorrowful and guilty. He looked away from me then, to the dusty brown floor, to his shining black shoes, and I saw little glass beads drop from his eyes. “I should have been with him, Beauty. He begged for years. ‘One fishing trip, son, just one.’” The young man with my carpenter’s nose shook his head like there was water sloshing uncomfortably between his ears. “Now here you are, mine, like you were always supposed to be, and it was some toothpick of a lawyer who handed you off to me. Should have been my old man, Beauty. Should have…” The young man stopped then. He looked up at me. “I’ll take care of you, Beauty. I’ll do right by my old man. I know he loved you, and so I’ll take care of you.”

            But he didn’t. Not at first. The first time he took me out to the ocean, same dock, no sun, same beer, no singing, same nose, no smiling, the young man was angry and so sad. He didn’t hurt me, didn’t chip my paint, crack my woodwork, neglect me, but with every glass bottle that slid down his throat more glass beads appeared in his eyes. He screamed, at whom, I could never tell. His father? The ocean? Himself? It seemed to change and stir together like the hot and cold tides below me. I tried my hardest to be gentle that night. I chided choppy waves and did my best to stay steady and slow for the young man breaking inside of me. When he fell over one of my seats and started snoring, I carried him carefully to the shore.

            The next morning the young man groaned and cursed and apologized to me.

            “I’m sorry, Beauty,” he muttered. “I hope you don’t think poorly of me now. I promise I’ll love you like my father did.” You’ll never be able to do that, young man, I told him. Love me like yourself. That will be enough.

            He eventually became my young man, just as his father had been my carpenter. My young man and I took many trips. He took me to see rivers and lakes, mountains and valleys, dangerous and timid water, crowded and quiet places.

            One day, my young man brought another with him. That day, the three of us set out at sunset. My young man had very little attention for me that night, save the necessary introductions, but I didn’t mind. I had never seen him show so many teeth in his smile before the third came along. She sailed with us on quite a few trips after that, that third party that gave my young man a shining smile. One night, again at sunset, my young man handed her a star. He put the star on her finger and they cried, smiles contradicting the glass beads falling out of their shining eyes.

            It took years, but my paint began to chip away. My woodwork began to groan and ache. My young man took good care of me, him and his lovely third party. Even when a fourth joined in our journeys, a tiny pink one that didn’t quite know when to smile and when to cry, my young man made sure I was safe, healthy. He looked more and more like my carpenter every day. Acted more and more like my carpenter every day. But the day came when his care wasn’t enough to keep me together. He still called me ‘Beauty’ every time he took me out to the water, but I knew when the word could no longer apply. I knew when my attempts to gently carry him began to fail.

            Let me go, young man, I told him one day. Let me go, as I had to let your father go. My young man ignored my words for a little while longer. We took a few more strained trips, but eventually even he couldn’t ignore the fact that I was coming to my end. I was beginning to get my fill of the ocean here among land.

            I was beautiful when the carpenter saw me again. He said so himself.

            “Look at this beauty,” he said to everyone who sailed past us on the clouds. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Reviews

[Jennesis]

This story has stayed with me since you read it to me the first time. I love the voice and life you give to the sailboat. I always imagine our things have as much connection to us as we do to them. And I cannot miss the metaphor for our aging bodies woven into your words here. The story is relatable to all of us and this journey we are all on. Beautiful!