Dream tides (VI)

September 7, 2011

[From August 10, 2009.]

The skipper of the boat could be mistaken for a tourist, so broad was he, if not for his wide-brimmed white hat and the white uniform stretched over his lumbering form. His arms, though, hung at his sides and he had a slight skip in his step. He swung the wheel around again. Again and again we turned corners. After a while I kept my eyes open for every turn, no longer afraid that the side of the boat would hit a wall. At the entrance to the highway, the toll collector chided the skipper for measuring the space incorrectly: he was to use the heels of his hands to span the width, not his fingertips. The skipper demonstrated with his fingertips, because this was what he’d been taught, but rules must have changed recently, rules he’d paid no attention to. His driving was superb. He went forward, and the toll collector, a young man—a boy, really—called after us, “Be careful, son.” Then a pair of arms hovered over my eyes. My family had found me.

And then I woke up, late for work again.


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