My Father’s Boat

At the edge of the dock perch two unused boat cleats. My father’s Boston Whaler once filled the space, a gift he gave himself having traded life on the farm for a small waterfront property in town. Dad had always enjoyed fishing but without a cottage or a boat, he hadn’t had many opportunities to pursue his hobby.

It was a luxury purchase to him but modest in comparison to the rest of the fleet at the marina. Dad hitched up all 13 feet of his brand new Whaler with its matching trailer and 25 horsepower Mercury motor, and prepared to launch on the maiden voyage. Fortunately, there was a boat ramp in town that had a gentle grade; the station wagon was backed up and after more than a few tries to line it up properly, the trailer was directed into the water, the strap securing the boat was released, and she was afloat.

Settled in behind the steering wheel, Dad proudly began the first of many trips up the creek toward the main branch of the Rideau. The initial journeys were short but allowed him to seek out good spots for fishing and take friends and family out for a leisurely tour of the local waterways. We delighted in the journey, particularly on warm summer mornings when we’d keep watch for wildlife along the shore: the families of turtles sunning themselves on logs and rocks, the occasional fish that would suddenly jump out of the water, and the resident blue heron who would come in for a landing among the reeds near the water’s edge and ready himself to snag something for lunch.

An effort was made to sort through Dad’s existing fishing gear. New lures and lines complemented the rods and reels he’d collected over the years. He even conceded to the advantages that new technology might offer by installing a fish-finder to give him that extra edge in his pursuit of the big one. He had some success in getting bites and reeling in a few but it was more about being out in the boat, on the water, quietly enjoying the moment, that made it worth the effort.

It wasn’t always smooth sailing for Dad. His little boat was no match for the wake created by the huge power boats traveling at full speed along the Rideau. We’d try our best to ride the wake but after a few too many times being tossed about or thrown off our seats, we resorted to navigating our way through the reeds, staying closer to the shoreline instead.

Owning a boat offers the occasional lessons in humility as well. A lovely man used to come every week to mow our lawn. One sunny day, Dad cajoled him into going for a boat ride, and being a good sport, Albert was happy to go along. The obvious necessities for safe boating were accounted for: life jackets, anchor, bailer, whistle, paddle – all checked. The only thing that was missing was enough gas for a return trip. The motor sputtered then quit on them a few miles from home. At least they had the paddle. Fortunately for Dad, Albert was not only a kind man but a reasonably fit one, as he took on the task of paddling them to the closest place he could find for a top up. “How could you do that to Albert?”, my mother and I asked when they returned much later than expected. We offered our apologies to Albert who insisted that none were necessary. He and Dad had had a little adventure, one that made for a good story. To us, it was just typical Dad, not paying attention to the necessary maintenance required in keeping things in ship shape. I didn’t know at the time that I would make the same mistake a few months later. My dad, a forgiving man, didn’t rub it in too much.