The Boat, The Water and the Lesson

The Boat, The Water ,and the Lesson

If you should find yourself in the high country most anywhere you might notice the quality of the air. It has a peculiar quality. Very. . . mmm. . . crystalline. Things seen through the air at high elevations are somehow sharper. More defined. High def, even. When in the mountains the light from the sun reflects off of ripples in a stream, more so on a lake, the resulting sparkle is magnificent. It speaks of wondrous possibility, of adventure, of sport, of life.

On such a day as that, light dancing a gavotte to the music of the water, I was fishing. We had a boat dock then, with a dozen or so rental rowboats tied to the dock with chains a foot and a half long. Those boats could dance as well, but being boats their dance was much more reserved. Boats are a dignified race, generally. Rather than trip gaily through the ripples they slowly let the wind press them to the end of the chain. Then in weighty, boat-like fashion, jerk back up to give the dock a solemn kiss. Endlessly this was repeated. Well, at least until the wind quit blowing

Now I was standing on the transom of a boat, that bit that forms the rear or stern of the boat. Transoms on rowboats aren't very thick, about two inches, but I was young and spry and worried not. The boat was doing its stately dance, the light flew through the crystalline air with joyous abandon. . . and I got a strike. A fish hit my lure, just as the boat jerked. Focused on the fish and not on boat, transom, jerk, water or light, I lost my balance and went off the back of the boat.

I came up underneath the boat. 

All I could see were bubbles—the light was having a grand time with those also. I couldn't find the edge of the boat. I struggled with all the passion and strength of youth but was unable to find the air. I fought like a demon all to no avail. I just could not break into the full light and get back to that wonderful, crystalline air.

It seemed a long time I struggled. Finally I realized I was not going to get out from under that boat. So I quit. I just stopped. Conserved the tiny bit of air left to me and went limp. I resigned myself to watery death.

Quite quickly after having done that, I joined the dance and drifted on the current out from under the boat. My head broke through the surface giving the light even more ecstatic water with which to dance, and my aching lungs wonderful, crystalline air to breathe.

I remember that day with great clarity and fondness. 

There are morals to be drawn from my tale. 

But I shan't be the one to dole them out to you. I'll trust you to find them yourself. If you want you can tell me what you learned and we can see if we've come to the same conclusions.

Oh, one thing more. After I came up for air, took inventory and found I wasn't dead, I dove down for my fishing rod, swam and waded over to the bank and went to reel in my lure, to find the fish was still on. I'm sure there's some moral there as well, but I'm not quite sure what it is.  

(c) 2016 John P. White