🌊 First Boat

Morning mist, quiet water, and the freedom of a first boat

Author’s Note

This story first appeared in Let’s Be Wild in 2012. The magazine is long gone, but I’m bringing it back here—along with other stories, essays, and notes from my sailing and swimming life.

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Some sail to travel; others travel to sail.

The lake near where I was staying didn’t even appear on a local map—not because of its size but because size wasn’t the point. I had always been a crew member on other people’s boats. But now, for three whole days, I had one to myself. There was no time to waste.

I arrived as the sun threw its first dim light over tall mountain trees, the moon still lingering in the sky. Warm vapor rose from the lake’s surface, drawn upward by the cold morning air. The spiraling columns drifted like spirits across the water, carrying off the last of my doubts with the night’s chill.

At this early hour, I wasn’t alone. A few fishing boats lurked in the lake’s corners. Feeling at ease, I dipped my feet into the warm water. Then came a loud splash—uncomfortably close.

Lately, rumors of a predator fish had been rippling through this peaceful lakeside community. Locals were convinced that someone had released a monster into the lake, and it had been terrorizing the indigenous fish ever since. One lifeguard claimed to have seen it ram a goose. A $150 reward was even posted for its capture. The anglers, holding up stripped bait hooks and frayed lines, swore these were the work of the super-fish. Far from ending up on a dinner plate, it had become part of local folklore. Parents spun bedtime stories about “the fisher-child” who would someday rise to catch the monster.

The trees whispered that it was high time for sailing. As if to signal the start, the wind shook the last raindrops from their leaves. The boat’s sudden heel caught me off guard. I’d heard it was fun to capsize a Sunfish, but the thought of freshwater bacteria (a beloved summer topic in the American press) waiting for me on the lake’s bottom quickly killed my curiosity.

I shot past the fishermen like a meteor. They didn’t flinch, their eyes locked on their bobbing floats. They could have been mannequins. Perhaps that’s what they wanted the fish to think.

Then a loud roar shattered the lake’s quiet. Expecting a jet to land on my head, I ducked instinctively. But it was only two dump trucks rumbling along the mountain road. I’d seen cleaner trucks only once before—when my car got trapped in Brooklyn’s Labor Day parade.

By afternoon, summer morning had given way to a summer day. Under the zealous watch of teenage lifeguards, the beach filled up. They divided the already minuscule swimming area in two, blocking off the deeper part from those without Olympic-level strokes. This was quite a contrast to the lifeguards at Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach, who won’t stop you from swimming to Europe—as long as you keep moving.

The wind slackened. Despite my sail being full, the boat stalled. It took me a moment to solve the mystery: long stems of lilies had wrapped around the tiller, holding me fast. There was no other way to free the boat but to pull the flowers from the water. Adorned now with a lovely bouquet of green lilies—a reward for the first day’s sail—the boat slipped forward again.