the little boat

The Little Boat.

The little boat lay on the shore near the reeds, next to the water. It lay there as it did each day until late in the morning when the old man came down from his cabin to put it to water. At about half-past ten, the old man came down to where the boat lay, as he always did, and dragged her out to the shallow water.

He put is knap-sack inside, and jumped in once he had cleared the shore, and the water was deep enough to do so. Then he took out the oars and started rowing upstream, away from home. He rounded the bend, and traveled easily and light on the water, as the surface was tranquil as usual. The stream was dark green, and flowed serenely past him as he rowed on in his little boat.

When he had gone quite some distance, he pulled the boat up under the shade of some trees whose branches grew over the river. Here he relaxed for a while and took his lunch from his bag. It was two chicken-mayonnaise sandwiches, and while he ate them, he drank coffee from his flask. He poured the coffee from his flask, into his old tin cup. He sat and ate and drank for a long while.

Then he smoked one of his small cigars, and relaxed by lying down in the boat under the shade of the trees. The cigar was slightly crumpled, so he straightened it with his fingers while he smoked. It was nice to relax with a smoke after lunch, and he occasionally closed his eyes while he smoked and rested. The midday heat was scorching hot, even in the shade.

Some time later, he took an old worn out poetry book from his canvas bag, and read from it to himself for a long while. When he had had enough poetry, he put the book back, and took out his note-book and pencil instead. He tried to come up with an idea for something to write about, by pondering on it for a long time. The whole afternoon he relaxed in his little boat, and weighed various options of what to write about. Occasionally he would suck absentmindedly on the pencil, and then look blankly at the page. Then he would lie back again, and rest and think for a while.

So it went the whole long afternoon, as the old man sat and thought and pondered his writing. He never came up with any idea, not one. Late in the afternoon as the sun started to go down he slowly took up his oars again, and started to row back downstream.

The river flowed by green and gentle, as he rowed the little boat home…