Nostalgic thoughts from a land-lubber.
MIST YOU Copyright 2008 Michael Raymond
She pulled and twisted against her captive ropes. Held firmly in place, she groaned and fought against her restraints. Seeing her there, like that, was sad. I remembered the sadness I felt the last time I had seen her, leaving and uncaring that I longed to go with her. She turned her back on me and drifted out of my life.
She was younger then, and beautiful. Now, in her anguish and strain, she was still beautiful, but older. Then, I thought her a most wonderful sight as the sun lit her graceful outline and danced, sparkling in the mist that surrounded her.
“How long has she been like this?” I asked. He shook his grizzled head and spat a squirt of tobacco into the black harbour.
“It must be nigh on to ten year now.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Ten years! She’s never been taken out in that long?”
His pale blue eyes looked up at me. “Nope. Owner died some time back. New owners never even been down here to see her.”
“Who owns her?” I asked, hating them instantly.
“Not rightly sure,” after pause and another squirt of tobacco. “Some city fella back in Torawna.” Another shake of his head, then, “Jack would have the name, up to the office.”
I knew then what must be done. I had no money, certainly not enough to buy her, but I knew that I must do something for her. Perhaps she could be hauled out, scrubbed and painted. As we slowly made our way back to the marina office, I let old Pete know how I felt.
At the door of the office he stopped and smiled up at me. Not a word was spoken, but he snicked with a twist of his mouth and winked. We then went in.
Later, sitting above her, feet dangling over the side of the wharf, we made a list of work that needed to be done to set things right. Old Pete and I sat there for hours that evening and worked together on many nights to come.
Six weeks later, tired but happy, we watched her glow once again in the fading evening light. We shook hands and accepted the compliments of a few onlookers. She sat resplendent on her trailer cradle, with a new coat of paint and name.
Stencilled across her transom, in fluorescent blue, we had painted ‘Mist You’ in italic lettering. She was ready for her trip to Toronto. Once again, I wasn’t going with her. A cheque had arrived, our reimbursement, with a note that she had been sold.