Eras at the Waterline

The story I've been waiting to write isn't about finishing school, or moving across country again, or my miserable amazing summer. It's not about my new car, or about my new brother (well only kind of), or the strange juxtaposition of times and places having him here, or my supreme loathing and immaculate skill at office jobs. It's not even about my father's impending hip replacement surgery, and the boatload of insecurities both personal and familial that that brings up. The story I want to tell is the one that finally realizes that a small part of childhood is truly behind me, the one that senses the fragility of more than his body, the one that senses my absence here so palpably, and the one that knows that no amount of kicking and screaming can prolong the inevitable.

My father's favorite child is our 27 foot Catalina sailboat, Renewal. I say that without any sort of jealousy really, that boat was my childhood. Somewhere my mom probably has a binder full of pictures I've drawn over the years of all of us on that boat, me in my 5 year old favorite rainbow striped tee-shirt with the penny button and pink biker shorts. We'd troop down to Pasadena every weekend, fairly religiously, starting mid-April and lasting through October if we were lucky and the hurricane season was light. We'd head out early that morning, usually with some church or school acquaintance in tow, stop at Angel's grocery on the way down to the marina to provision, then finally to the marina. I remember explaining patiently to any children that we had along about how you had to wear shoes on the docks or you'd get splinters, where to stick your shoes and things if you didn't want them to fall over if the boat started rocking, how to walk and hold on so you didn't fall over, and the best places to sit and lace your feet through the railings at the bow to get the best splashes from passing waves. Sailing was non-negotiable weekends, at least for a while. Then my sisters got older and moodier, and my brother decided he didn't give a shit. Not to mention the unending parade of swim meets, soccer games, sleepovers, church engagements, and school projects, and every weekend on the water turned into maybe twice a month.

My dad broke his leg maybe ten years ago. Nothing serious, he just took a wave the wrong way at Martha's Vineyard one summer. I think that was really the end of it for us. Already with one bad leg from childhood polio, he never really got his balance back after the break. I barely even noticed at the time, how the excuses piled up between us and the Chesapeake; not enough wind, too much wind, repair problems, scheduling problems, you name it. Renewal sat for entire summers untouched, save for maybe monthly visits to make sure the lines were still intact, and there wasn't too much water in the bilge. My brother or I often would ride down with him in front of the next hurricane, just to make sure the boat was tied up safe against the wind or the storm surge. We'd both fall unwittingly back into our old routines, I'd clamber about checking all the ropes while he fiddled with the motor or other mechanics far out of reach of my expertise.

I went away to college four years ago and was homesick for seagulls. I'd wake up early morning with the sound of waves crashing ringing in my ears, and not quite be able to trace the source of my almost dreams. I wore a seagull charm around my neck for quite a few years with the simple hope of holding on to that part of my life, my family, and my father. It sounds maudlin, and I don't mean to be dramatic, but water was maybe the biggest gift he ever gave me. Portland satisfied so much of my craving for green wild places, but never in my life have I felt further from water, as ironic as that sounds.

I realized this weekend that I haven't been sailing in maybe six years. I wanted to take Honza, who like so many land-locked Czechs has a near total obsession with the ocean, and show off a bit of this American life that we lead. This month also happens to be the longest consecutive chunk of time I've spent at home since my senior year of high school, and I guess a large part of me hadn't really realized how much I'm unaware of. We had to practically carry my father, but he made it into the cockpit leaning on my mother, Honza, and I. Of course, he's far to proud to admit how embarrassed he was at his difficulty, nor how frightened he was of attempting to sail, nor ask for help. Honza happily pumped the bilge, while I checked all the battery functions. I kind of knew, even before the sputtering and pillowing white smoke, that there'd be something wrong with the motor. The thing is older than I am, easy, and has been severely neglected over the past few years. But the amount of frustration and disappointment in the eyes of my father and Honza, I almost couldn't bear to watch.

They've apparently decided it's not worth the money and the psychic energies to have the thing fixed, since they're just going to be selling Renewal within the year. Either my parents will finally go through with their long fantasized about move to North Carolina, or finally give in to the financial burden of what as always been an irrational and illogical pursuit, or officially accept that they are no longer safe on the water.

That was really the heartbreaking part of it. The concrete and unarguable end of an era, of my childhood, the severing of ties to all of those lost summer days, to the moments before we all had back stories, and to what I truly think will crush a large part of my father's soul. As much as he drives me up the wall so much of the time, him and me are wired in very much the same fashion. We thrive on challenges, crave projects, and absolutely have to have something to strive for coming down the line. It took him two years after retiring to figure himself out again, what it meant to be him again. This boat was even more of a central part of his core (of all of ours in some small way I think), than work was. Selling it means its all over, those first 25 years of dramatic tearful joyful exultant family life.

Weird.