This is the third in a series of essays based on a writing prompt.
3. The Vessel: Write about a ship or other vehicle that can take you somewhere different from where you are now.
https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/
It wasn’t officially christened Bompa’s Boat until after he died. But it didn’t matter—we all knew whose boat it was. Even when he retired as captain, it was still his.
It wasn’t—still isn’t—a fancy boat. I couldn’t tell you the model or what kind of motor it had. It was about 4 meters long and had a raised space in the bow. Underneath he stored the anchors and life vests. Against harbor master’s rules, his grandkids used to sit at the bow with our legs dangling through the railings, over the edge.
Blinding sun, bright blue sky. The heat of summer stinging my skin. The smell of salt and sunscreen. My mother looked the picture of elegance, sitting with one of her long legs crossed over the other on the little seat right in front of the steering wheel. Behind her, shielded by the windscreen, stood my grandfather at the wheel with my dad by his side. The captain and his first mate smiled behind tinted glasses. My brothers and I vied for prime seats at the bow.
Once through the harbor Bompa would open up the throttle. Then all you could hear was the roar of the motor and the whipping of wind in your ears. Impossible to speak in anything less than a shout, so we didn’t bother. Each of us would silently take in what we enjoyed most about Bompa’s Boat. The speed, the feeling of floating, the salt spray. Shrieks of laughter as a larger boat’s wake splashed us.
Each generation of our family has been transported to a happy place on Bompa’s Boat. Everyone had their favorite destination. Some liked Ship Rock. Others preferred the sand bar that surfaced at low tide. Though it was a long trip—all the way around Gooseberry Island—my favorite spot was Barney’s Joy. As the tide ebbed, the current from one of the inland ponds flowed out between the dunes, through a narrow throat and into the bay. That throat was Barney’s Joy. We’d anchor offshore, dive in and swim with our life vests or innertubes to land. Then we’d trudge up the stream a ways, jump in and be whisked out to sea. It was heavenly to float on that current, surrendering myself to the tide. Better than any water park lazy river.
Now my dad captains Bompa’s Boat as my husband stands by as first mate. I cross my legs on the seat in front of the steering wheel. Our boys and their cousins shriek, stumble and laugh in the bow. Sometimes I feel my grandfather is there, too. Smiling his quiet smile, basking in the joy his family still gets from Bompa’s Boat.
