Place #1

I am already missing solid ground as I step into the dinghy and sit down with a canvas bag wedged between my knees. The bag is filled with my treasures; pens, books, journal, notebook, camera. My luck they'll all fall overboard when I heave the bag up on deck.

David rows efficiently, he's good at it, looking over his shoulder occasionally to keep us on course heading straight for his beloved sailboat, Labrador. When I row this little boat, it goes zig zagging one way and then the other, oars splash water as one skims the surface and the other goes too deep. Too many things to think about at once.

Which is another problem. Being an early riser, I like a morning walk. Once on the boat, it is hard to get away. To row ashore alone means untying the dinghy, stepping gingerly into it, putting oars in oar locks, and looking over my shoulder, heading to shore. If we are in a harbor, I aim for the dock. If we are in a cove I aim for the rocks which are slippery with sea weed or covered with razor sharp barnacles. And then there is the tide. Better tie the boat up well or it could float away on the rising tide. Busy riding horses, I never mastered knot tying at summer camp.

So I stay put. In the morning, I climb the steep ladder and arrive on deck groggy from lack of sleep. I pride myself for my ability to sleep anywhere. In a tent, on the ground I can eventually get comfortable stretching in one direction and then the other. Not so on the hard bench, which doubles as the seat at the table (boats are so efficient, many uses for everything.) I lie awake listening to the fog horn. The seagulls.

As for the books, they go unread. Queasy from the gentle rocking of the boat, I am unable to read. I tried taking drugs. Bonine is said to work wonders. I didn't really take to being drugged. Blurry and for once, quiet, I stared into the distance. Not until we were well on our way home did my brain kick in. As we passed Moody's Diner on Rt. 1 heading south, I started talking non-stop, giddy to be on land.