My Father’s Boat

Regular maintenance and upkeep became more and more of an issue as both the boat and Dad got older. In spite of regular and expensive maintenance, the motor was unreliable. It would start, go for a bit, then inexplicably conk out, leaving us to figure out what wire to jiggle or lever to flip that would help us get home. One afternoon, Dad headed off for a little ride while I decided to sit and sun on the dock instead. He turned the key, the motor started to hum, I cast him off and he was on his way. He got about 50 feet down the creek when I heard the motor die. In spite of trying a few things to get it going again, Dad was stuck, this time without a paddle, and the current was taking him further from home. Fortunately, we had a canoe and a paddle close at hand so the rescue mission was launched. It didn’t take long for me to reach him; it took much longer to tow him and the Whaler back to the dock. Once there, with the boat tied up and Dad back on dry land, the debate continued about what to do about the boat. My mother had had enough of the hassles and expensive, ineffective repairs, and although I agreed that it was a nuisance, I could see how much Dad loved that boat. It was his summer fun and he didn’t want to part with it or the promise of adventure on trips taken or just imagined.

With my father’s failing health, mobility became more of an issue for him. Unsteady on his feet and becoming a bit confused at times, it was becoming more and more of a challenge for him to enjoy being out on the water. Fearing another motor failure or the possibility of him becoming disoriented, I insisted that he not go alone. Since my mom wasn’t as interested in boat outings, Dad and I continued but our journeys became shorter and less frequent. Small boats shift about easily on the water and without a steady place to step, getting in and out of the boat became a daunting task for Dad. Standing in the boat, I’d reach out my hands and direct where to put his feet; we were both relieved once he was safely seated but knew that we’d have to resume our clumsy dance once we returned.

The boat made what turned out to be her last trip to the marina for winter storage that fall. The motor was its customary unreliable self, this time refusing to allow me to speed up without cutting out. Dark skies were filling in overhead by the time I turned into the marina and steered her into a berth. I handed the keys off; I was done. The following spring, in spite of my father’s wishful talk of getting back on the water, my mother and I agreed it was time to sell the boat. Given how seldomly Dad had gone out the previous year, we reasoned that it had become more of a headache than it seemed worth, at least to us, and the fear that something tragic could happen became more of a possibility.

I realized what the boat meant to my father. Her absence haunted the dock that summer, a reminder of what Dad no longer was able to do. Common sense trumped wishful thinking. Without the Whaler to pin his summer dreams on, he was left to accept that his days of messing about in boats were over. I could have kept the boat going for another season, replaced the motor, given him one more year. But time was up; happy memories would have to fill the void left at the end of the dock.