Trying to Find My Sea Legs

I hate going on ships. Or boats, rafts too. Really anything that floats. I’ve tried it, believe
me. I went in hoping for the best, but I guess some people are better off without them–I can live
with that.
As a little kid, I didn’t care much about boats to begin with. They never seemed like an
activity someone my age would enjoy, especially since I was always told they were for grownups
and that I would love them when I was older, which was just fine with me. It made sense: adults
were the ones I saw most often on them, sometimes teens too, and while they always seemed to
have a great time, I hadn’t put in any thoughts about going on one myself. Though, growing up,
I’d always see a multitude of boats out and about on a nice day, all distinct in their own little
ways, and wonder about what it was that made so many people want to have one of their own.
Some people had a smaller boat, like a canoe or whatever you call them, and usually
spent the day riding the gentle waves and keeping to themselves. Those were the ones I figured
I’d enjoy if I ever got to choose a boat of my own; they looked calm, yet fun. The people in them
always took such great care of theirs, and I appreciated them more as time went on, but I was
never sure how safe they were when it wasn’t such a calm day. Although I guess you usually
wouldn’t want to take it out if the water was rough, I know some waves can break a boat apart if
you’re not careful.
Others preferred large, luxury ships (Yachts? A big water vessel, I couldn’t tell you the
name) with bright lights and parties always aboard, dazzling everyone watching as they sailed by
and pretended not to notice all the attention they drew. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little
envious of how much of a spectacle they were, their size towering over others like they were the
most important thing in the whole world at that moment. Everyone always aspired to reach that
level, or so I heard from all the people who stopped to watch it sail by. I grew out of caring about

them eventually, so they just seem sad to me now, knowing that some people devote themselves
to caring about someone else's boat more than their own.
Even as a child, I knew from the first time I saw them that the worst types were speed
boats. Loud, fast, and all up in everyone’s way. I could never understand why people enjoyed
them. Sure, it kinda looked like you could have a good time, engines blasting and horns blaring,
though I knew I definitely couldn’t handle something like that for very long. It was hard not to
notice them too, unless you were really trying, which is something I’ve taught myself to do after
my experience with one. Despite being able to ignore them now, I can still picture them zipping
across the water like they were trying to outrace something–maybe themselves. What no one
talks about, unfortunately, is that the thrill of riding one disappears faster than they speed by.
When I finally reached an age where going on a boat became more common, I got invited
to join a friend on their calm, gentle rowboat. By this time in my life, I also wanted to experience
what boating was like for myself after hearing it described by so many people, so I figured it was
the perfect way to get comfortable with it and have fun. Genuinely, it was an extremely exciting
time.
We met up and I climbed in towards the nose, moving the tarp covering it out of the way,
and started to get my bearings on the unfamiliar vessel. With a few tugs of a cord from my
“friend,” however, a motor sputtered to life like an evil laugh, knowing it had just tricked me. I
quickly realized that this rowboat had been turned into a makeshift speed boat, with a brand new
engine shoddily attached to the back that was previously hidden by the tarp. Before I could
object, the boat sprung forward and didn’t dare slow down.
I will admit, those first few moments felt like nothing I had ever experienced before.
Gliding so effortlessly across the water, the engine carried the little, wooden vessel as far and as

fast as we wanted to go. Finally, I understood why people enjoyed being on a speed boat, even
with a janky one like ours was. Then we took a turn that whipped me back into reality.
Fear instantly took control, paralyzing my body, and it was then I realized I could hardly
see in front of the boat. Water sprayed up and turned to a constant mist that, combined with the
wind from the boat’s insane speed, made it hard to keep my eyes open. All I could do was hold
on for dear life, but it wasn’t long before I heard the splintering of wood through the wild scream
of the engine. I yelled at my friend to slow down, knowing it was too much for such a fragile
boat, but the engine roar and wind easily brushed away any of my loudest pleas. Eventually, the
wood couldn’t hold it together any longer and the engine’s force ripped the boat in two, throwing
us in opposite directions. Water rushed in and consumed the old rowboat within seconds, leaving
hardly any trace of it as we landed among the remaining floating debris.
Thankfully, they made it back to shore quickly, but unfortunately couldn’t escape a few
injuries from the wreck. I wasn’t quite so lucky either, as I remember feeling the stinging cuts
and newly formed bruises across my body while slowly swimming back to land. The accident
caused quite a scene as you could imagine, but that’s not to say it was entirely their fault. Neither
of us could have controlled it, we simply weren’t ready for a boat of that type, and I tried to
remind myself of this occasionally whenever a cut would open up again. The part that I
remember the clearest and that really made me begin to resent boats, however, was that when the
crowds ran down to check if everything was ok, no one seemed to notice I was in the crash too.
That’s the danger of having a boat: accidents always bring them down hard. Speed boats
whip up water like a geyser, so no one aboard can see what’s coming up ahead with all the mist.
I’ve never seen one go without crashing, creating an awkward, piercing silence throughout the
water for a short time. Motors stop revving and the wakes they leave quit splashing–a bittersweet

moment knowing the damage that accompanies it. Afterwards, too many people get involved
trying to explain what happened, those who are supposed to help turn away, and it’s overall an
ugly experience trying to clean up. The people aboard will eventually drag their bruised and
battered bodies back and part ways, typically off to find another, faster boat as if nothing just
happened. I hope some of them learn from their mistakes; it happens too frequently, and I don’t
want more people to go through what I did.
With the luxury ships, it seems like even the smallest slip-up causes them to sink. Not
many of them existed where I lived, so word spread quickly when they stopped by and
eventually went down. When you’re trying to impress everyone else, I guess it’s easy to forget to
take care of what actually matters instead of focusing on the superficial show. They’d always
appear again, though, usually with a flashy new look and a wild party to restart the jealousy
cycle. The distraction worked every time. Sometimes they’d even rebuild an old one and make a
big deal out of starting over, which people of course ate up; however, give it time, and the ship
would fail again and again.
A few years after the first incident, another friend tried to convince me about going on
their boat. It took months, and I resisted initially, but ultimately I warmed up to the idea. It was
their first time out on one, but when we met up a few days later, they assured me I would be safe
and we both agreed to give it our all to make sure it was a pleasant experience. Their confidence
overpowered any leftover doubts of mine, so I got in and we took off, gently this time. Looking
back now, I should’ve just stuck with my gut.
The boat felt safe at first, no hidden motor definitely helped, but I quickly started to
realize just how flimsy it was. It felt like whoever made it had an idea of what a boat was, but
had no idea how they were made. The wood constantly creaked and felt weak (their back half of

the boat was made of one type and a completely different type covered my half in the front), my
seat sat practically at the bottom while theirs made it feel like they towered over me, and two
mismatched paddles prevented balance in our rowing. All of these factors combined to create
what I can only describe as an awkward boat. Still, I made the best of it and helped to control the
boat as we both started getting the hang of it. That is, until the clouds rolled in.
Rain poured heavily, and the waves began to fight against us as we tried to hurry back to
land, making less and less progress due to the boat beginning to get trapped in the current. I
remember turning around to ask what we should do, but before I could open my mouth, the
second paddle was thrust into my hands as my friend dove out of the boat without a word,
throwing the already hard-to-maneuver vessel off balance and leaving me stranded as the waves
kicked the canoe back and forth.
I did my best to keep the situation under control, trying to keep the boat steady while I
attempted to make it back out of the water before I became truly stuck. Water splashed in with
each wave and began to drag the boat down, putting pressure on the center where the different
woods met, but I kept at it. Even though I knew it wouldn’t happen, I remained blindly hopeful
that my friend would come back to help. In hindsight, I probably should’ve gotten out too and
used my energy to at least try and swim back to shore, but I didn’t want to just abandon the boat
that easily. Not too long after being deserted, a large wave sideswiped me. I was flung from my
seat, thankfully towards the shore, and into the frigid water, the boat giving into the final straw
on its back and snapping in two. The waves spit me back out onto the now empty coast, cold and,
once again, alone.
* * *

I tend to stay on land now. Again, not the best of times with the few boats I’ve been on,
which should be obvious why I am not a big fan. Maybe I’m just not cut out for being on one.
That being said, I have learned to appreciate boats more, just for others instead of myself.
Not the big distractions–those I still can’t find their appeal–but the serene nature of the
kayaks, canoes, and other quiet, intimate boats I find myself coming back to. They’re well taken
care of, and those on them know their limits, improving and decorating theirs little by little. It
helps that they were built well to begin with too, at least compared to the last one I was on.
Even when stormy days suddenly appear, I’ve seen some of those smaller boats out. Both
aboard work to flow with the crashing tides instead of fighting against them, gently returning to
shore. You learn what to look for in a good boat when you have a good example.
As I sat by the edge of the waves not too long after the last incident, a stranger sat on a
rock next to me, gazing out at the many people and boats on the water. They spoke to me without
shifting their attention, striking up a conversation about their dreams to go out onto the water
someday. Even though they had never been on a boat, I gathered they knew what to do if they
ever were on one–they must’ve grown up watching the right people.
I saw them today, close to the shore, building what appeared to be the start of a small
rowboat. Catching each other's glances, they usher me over with a friendly wave, asking me, of
all people, for help. It’s hard work, but if it helps prevent another disaster like those previous
boats I’d been on, I’m more than happy to be their assistant.
I continue to show up every day at the same spot, helping more with the boat. We’ve
never built one before, so both of us definitely know to be patient, especially with the level of
care we’re putting into this. I at least know what not to do, so that’s gotta account for something.

Pieces of wood occasionally break or we put them on the wrong way, but we take our time and
make adjustments to be sure the boat will feel comfortable to sail in. Better to go through the
problems now than out on the water.
As the boat becomes closer and closer to reaching completion, it finally dawns on me that
I don’t even know who they’re building it for. Certainly not for only themselves; it seems too
large to be properly handled by one person, unless all they want to do is float by the shore. I
shake my head, as if that gets rid of the thought. There had to be someone else, obviously. Why
else would they be building one? The other person could help us build it at the very least, but
maybe it’s a surprise for them. Whatever the case is, at least I know they’ll be in safe hands with
this boat and especially their partner.
All of last night, I couldn’t sleep. That stupid boat wouldn’t leave my head. I could
hardly sit still, itching to keep working on it. I don’t even like boats! Yet here I was, anxiously
watching the clock with my leg bouncing like a jackhammer, my anticipation almost too much
for me to handle. Minutes become excruciatingly slow until the time I usually leave finally
strikes and I blast out the door, my feet practically launching the rest of my body in the direction
of the boat.
To my surprise, the rowboat isn’t sitting in its usual spot when I arrive. Quickly scanning
the rest of the shoreline, I can’t find it anywhere. It seems to have completely disappeared. I
can’t believe it; all our hard work vanished into thin air overnight. Tears begin to flood down my
face before I can fully process this situation. Here I am, crying over the same thing that’s given
me nothing but pain. What the hell is wrong with me? I turn my back to the water and begin to
walk away when I feel a hand gently tap my shoulder.

Slowly turning around, my face puffy and streaked with tears, I see the rowboat fully
completed and sitting on the shore. More importantly, they’re there too, smiling compassionately
as they notice my embarrassing overreaction. I can’t help but smile back. I’ve never been more
excited to see someone with a boat.
They pushed it to the edge of the shore, water wrapping around the bottom, ready to be
where it belongs, as I stood there frantically wiping away the remnants of my crying. Oddly, my
excitement didn’t fade knowing there was no more work to be done. If anything, it grew
exponentially. Then it hit me how stupid I was to think I was crying only over the boat. I knew I
wanted to be on that boat, but really, I wanted to be on it with them.
Extending their hand out as an invitation to join them, I knew they felt the same. There
was no other person they were building it for; my fear blinded me from seeing the truth. This
was now, and this was our boat that we made together. Taking their hand, I join them aboard,
filled with excitement and the knowledge that this is the right boat for me. This is where I need to be.