cy mba l s
2 021 : met hod a nd mad nes s
Tin Boat So it was black morning, and Fred and I found ourselves on the Maine water in the tin boat. Fred was clinging to a rope—water skiing—that dragged behind Granny’s old silver tin-can boat. The throttle was disconnected from the stupid thing so that whenever you pushed it forward too hard it would pop! and you’d have to hammer it back into place before things got out of hand and you crashed into some dogs or something. We sloshed and zogged down in the bay for a while before the sun even rose. Whenever we found the tide high in the morning like that we would seal ourselves down there to skim and talk and act young; when the tide got low we anchored the boat to go kill animals on Chippy’s Island, where the grassy-tree animals made silent conversation. I used to think that when everything would go south in the world Fred and I would go down to Chippy’s and make fires and sleep in tents and laugh a while. But everything keeps changing: Fred’s dead now, and I can’t sleep for more than five hours without waking up yelling in an absurd fit of rage about Bayberry and Boss. But this morning, nothing changed. Nothing could corrupt Fred and I into thinking something would be different in a few years—we found ourselves too busy. Busy skimming and loving the orange sky and waiting for the tide to turn muddy to kill animals on Chippy’s. I was operating Granny Paula’s boat feeling happy as the time passed slower than usual—Fred ski skimming—and I felt the kid let go. The boat lurched forward and I got nervous and yanked the throttle back and turned around. But he was waving his ski like a flag on the edge of Chippy’s. I spun the wheel and pushed the throttle forward to go to Fred, but the next second the whole throttle system got torn off the Tin Boat, and I was out of control, barreling toward a dancing Fred. I tried to cut the engine, but my fingers were shaking. It was too late now. Lousy me: Granny’s Tin Boat got obliterated on the rock ten yards off Chippy’s. I jumped right before it hit and paddled over to Fred—shaking and pooping my pants—so I barely saw the thing make contact with the rock. But I can tell you it sounded like when we crush beers on the bottom of our heels, though a lot more voluminous. Point is, the thing crippled. “Jesus, Jack! Why didn’t you steer or something, you dumb idiot?” “Shut up, I was in shock! You would’ve done the same thing Freddy, oh god.”
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