I can still remember the pastel pink and yellow flowers of the spring day when my Dad bought our sail boat. I was eight years old and had mixed feelings about the boat. On the one hand, it was awe inspiring to sit in its hull while my dad drove us through town with the sailboat perched upon a rickety trailer. On the other hand, it seemed to be a rather superfluous expense.
I did not learn about my father's history with sailboats until many years later. It turns out that he used to work in Boston's shipyard furnishing yachts for the wealthy. He designed, carved, and polished the wood with his bare hands, yet never owned one himself. The 32 foot sailboat that was now a part of our family was not just a frivolous purchase. For him, it represented the end of serving others and the beginning of living life for himself.
The boat was old and not well taken care of, but he fixed it up and even let me help with the painting. When we finally got it out on the lake where my aunt and uncle lived, I was excited. The sails were billowing beautifully in the wind, like clouds in the sky. The sun was shining, and I now wanted to learn how to sail. I let go of my doubts and whole heartedly hopped on board.
I ended up having a fairly debilitating fear of sailing for the first few years that we had the boat due to a traumatic experience being caught in a thunderstorm. However, I eventually overcame my aquatic anxiety. Sailing then became a family bonding experience. The sailboat serves to remind me of a time when I would take turns reading Harry Potter aloud with my mother, or anchor the boat and swim in the lake.
I recently learned that my father sold our sailboat. The news brought back a myriad of memories of summers past. I always remember the smell of smoke in the air as my uncle barbequed, or the soft grass under my feet in the yard by the dock. Mostly, though, I remember how we made a small home out on the water every summer.