Chapter 2 A Girl and a Lake

If time were a bank , imagine all the wasted seconds spent on moments of little value. If I could withdraw all my seconds, both spent and unused, wasted or well worn, I would give them away to the girl I knew a very long time ago.  I know she would, in turn, give them away as well.  She’d give them back to me, and the rest she had, to a father, to a lake, and to a yellow haired boy.  So if you are willing to deposit your time with me I promise, that in exchange, to give you something worthy of your time.  I know I will try.

From the shore of the Lake the girl peered southward scanning north to south to the vast horizon. Her eyes cutting rows from shore to sky as her father had taught her to do.  She knew beyond the line of sky and water laid vast land and giant southern cities.  From west to east she mowed the lake with her vision.

  There. East. A blip on the water. From the seaway, through the locks where the three sister lakes joined, she spotted her.  It appeared motionless, but the girls excitement caused her to rush as if it could disappear at any moment.  She rummaged inside the tote she always carried and pull out the spyglass.  Her other hand threw aside unneeded things and grasped the notepad to record her find.  It took a moment to adjust the scope.  She slid the lens outward then back in until she reacquired her find. A ship, no, more accurately for the lake, a boat.  She twisted the lens, a Whaleback.  No. No. No whales lived in the fresh waters; a whaleback was a type of boat.  The boats which carried potash and taconite ore, limestone or grain, from the western ports eastward, cement and salt from the ports of smallest lake to the south northward.

She was called a whaleback because her bow was bowed as were her sides from the waterline to the deck at the gunwale. Her deck as well was slightly convex, to more readily bleed the water of waves which rose and crashed o’er her. From the shores the boat looked like the great beast of nature. To the girl who had never seen a whale she looked like a great grey cucumber slightly squashed.

Time is a gardener pruning dying blossoms.  Her father had told her of the wooden ships which plied these waters when he was young.  She knew the history of the ships from first vessel of her father’s home continent which had found the inner water ways.  45 tiny tons of space she had and a crew of 32.  On its maiden voyage the Lake claimed her and all who manned. She was yet to be found in the cold grey grave of water.

She knew too, the long progression of vessels and styles of boats which came after.  The brigs, schooners, and sloops had given way to the Cannaler and Freighter.  Wood made way for iron, then steel.  Wind, to steam, then screw.  The Whaleback was a dying ship.  The new Lakers were immense beasts with tall walls and flat decks. The length and tonnage grew as well.  500 footers fully laden with over 6000 tons, like skyscrapers on their sides plowed the waters now. And larger ships were coming.

She noted the style of vessel, the date and time, and her course in the notepad and quickly refilled her bag as she ran back toward the light house.  Her young legs carried her up the spiral iron stairs of the 61 ft. tower to the light room.  The duties of the official light keeper were strictly regimented. From dusk to dawn no longer than thirty minutes unattended meant her father slept in daylight so she found herself alone.  The great red book lay out on a pedestal and here she recorded the official passage of the ship, the weather and conditions of the wind.  She peered through the great scope and wrote the name of the vessel both in her book and in the great red log.

From the ship itself they would spy the house, each lighthouse different from the next.  Her house painted white with swirling red stripes to denote it and to tell the vessels which place they were passing on their voyage. The radio squawked as the ship hailed, the captain stating its name and course and verifying her condition as seaworthy in gentle winds and 5 foot waves.  “Good waters” she replied.

The girl sat watching the vessel plod its way past. From the north the wind was growing colder.  But she did not notice the gathering clouds on her horizon.  Just the boat.  Slowly trudging against wind and wave, past her waypoint west, toward distant horizon, ever forward through time.