My dad was a boat lover. For as long as I can remember, he loved boats. For a time, he was a boat watcher. For many years he was a boat owner. He owned pleasure boats, the type used primarily for leisurely rides or for pulling water skiers.
Occasionally, he fished from these boats.

It didn’t matter much to him, so long as he could take his boat out. Water had a calming effect, whether the boat was going full speed or he was sitting in a cove and it gently rocked or moved in the breeze. He’d find a quiet spot, stop the boat, and sit for a time. He saw many seasons turn over his years and would comment about them year after year. "Why, look. The trees are just starting to bud." "That oak tree has grown a good bit over the year." "Look at the colors of the trees this fall, especially that sweet gum."

My mom used to worry about him. Some mornings he left the house early and didn’t return until after lunch- or sometimes he even stayed out into the evening. My mom would fret that he had run out of gas, he’d had a heart attack, some other boater had come along, beat him up, and stolen his boat, or that he’d fallen off the boat and drowned. She always figured the worst- as if he was not capable of taking care of himself.

From the time I turned 8 and until I moved away from my parents home, if given the chance, I tagged along with my dad when he took out his boat. I’d wake up to the smell of fresh coffee. One quick cup at home and we were out the door. The extra coffee went into the thermos, ready for later in the morning. This was the only time I drank coffee while growing up.

We’d take the short drive down to the dock on the Mississippi River where the boat was stored. During this ride I watched my dad change. In the house, before leaving, he was quiet. We never spoke. The clatter of my setting the coffee cup on the table would elicit a "shhh" from him, fingers pressed tightly to his lips. "Set it on the placemat. We don’t want to wake your mother," he’d whisper. His goal was to sneak out without having to answer my mother’s inevitable question: "What time will you be home?" He figured if she didn’t know, she wouldn’t worry. And if she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t have to lie.

But once we were out of the house, in the car, out of the driveway, you could see him relax. He would unclench his teeth. Stop holding his breath. And loosen his grip on the steering wheel. I used to think that he believed that by clutching the steering wheel as he started the car and left the driveway that he could will it into quietness. No engine sound. No gravel crunching under the weight of the car. Once out of the drive, however, he would loosen his grip, roll down his window, and rest his elbow on the door. He even drove with one hand if he felt like it.

He never turned the radio on during these drives to the boat, but he would hum or whistle quietly. He’d tap his fingers
impatiently on the steering wheel. His eyes would twinkle. His body was filled with joy. Such joy as I never saw in any other way. He was child-like- almost bouncing with enthusiasm.

Secretly, I called this his "going to the boat" demeanor.

Once we arrived at the dock, my dad followed a regular, paced routine. He kept his boating "possibles," as he called them, in his trunk. His "possibles" were things he might possibly need. He picked up this term from a movie and liked it so much that he added it to his vocabulary. His "possibles" consisted of a small toolbox, a hat, a small bag that held a fold-up rain slicker, a few extra fishing accessories, sunglasses, and any number of various other items. 

I had my own "possibles," as well, though they weren’t as practical as my dad’s. Mine consisted of candy, a few toys, maybe a book and comb (when I was older), a flashlight (simply because I managed to convince my dad that this made sense for me; I played with it far more than we used it), and pretty much whatever other small items I wanted to carry with me for the day.

He unloaded his gear and thermos from the car, I unloaded mine, and we walked to his boat.

The moment my dad’s foot hit the dock, his pace changed – it became more purposeful, as if each and every step counted more than ever because it was taking him right where he wanted to be. Needed to be. The dock itself was like many docks – a bit rickety and very creaky, full of spider webs, enough so that he stored a stick at one end, in the rafters so that he could clear them away. He would swish at them, back and forth, right and left. He always walked in front of me to clear the path. Once we reached the slip where his boat was, the smell of fish from the fish cleaning station nearby immediately let him know if the fish were biting or not.

Any number of weathered men would greet us from their place on the dock or from their boat in its slip. Men who were
unshaven every day but Sunday, who seemed to wear the same flannel shirt and blue workpants day in and day. These were friendly men – "Hey Smitty. Hey Miss Smitty," they’d say. "Fish are biting at Long Neck Cove if you’re interested."

My dad covered the boat every night, whether he was going to use it the next day or not. So once he arrived at the slip, he
loosened the boat cover, rolled it back carefully- always stern to bow, and stored it on the dock for the day. Before putting his gear on the boat, he’d stand back, give a low wolf whistle, and say, "Ain’t she a beauty?" He would then walk around and stroke it, a look of both pride and awe on his face. I often wondered if he did this when he was alone. I guessed that he did, since at this point he seemed oblivious to me.

After doing his walk around, my dad very methodically put away all his boating items- he had a storage area for each one. He’d take one last look at the boat and the dock before sitting down and starting the motor.

He was as methodical about starting the motor as he was about putting away his gear. He’d leave it in neutral for a minute or two, say to himself, "My but she’s humming today," and start to relax in his seat.

He’d put the boat in reverse and back it out of the slip carefully, always conscious of where he was and what was around him. Once he had cleared the slip, he shifted from reverse to neutral again, then to drive. The boat snapped into gear and started its gentle trip forward.

While still in the no wake zone, my dad adjusted his hat. He sat in the driver’s seat, sunglasses in place, hands on the steering wheel, legs tucked under the dash. He no longer whistled or hummed; his fingers no longer danced with excitement on the steering wheel. At this point he was the epitome of calm. The wrinkles on his brow and around his eyes relaxed. No tension was visible in his posture.

When we reached the edge of the no wake zone, my dad would make a final adjustment to his cap, ask me if I was ready, and push down the throttle. The goal- at every opportunity, at every glimpse of calm water- was speed. My dad, despite his need for tranquility, liked to go fast in his boat. We’d race out of the cove, wind blowing at us from all directions, a smile on my dad’s face that seemed to reach his fingertips and toes and all places in between at once.

We’d cruise at this pace to one of my dad’s many favorite spots, either a cove or a sandbar. Most coves were lined with rocks and graced with trees. On occasion, a fish worth keeping might be caught.

Once we stopped, we’d pour coffee and sit silently, looking at the shore, and at the water. We’d watch other boats as they
moved past- pontoons at their leisurely pace; fishing boats in a hurry to the next spot that was identified in the morning paper as "good fishing;" ski boats with skiers trying the latest stunts.

We would stop at sandbars when we saw a boat that belonged to friends or when I wanted to get out and swim. At these stops my dad would carefully tie up the boat and take out a bottle of cleaner and clean. He’d wash the windshield and the dash and the seats and wipe down the outside as much as possible.

My dad and I would also take walks on the sandbars and look for driftwood for my mom. She liked small, interesting pieces for some of her arts-and-crafts and she liked larger pieces for her flower gardens. In a few places in our lawn she had driftwood with ivy coming out of it, draping over the edges. 

The time on his boat was spent this way. Sitting. Watching. Cruising to a new spot. More sitting. More watching. More cruising.

My dad spent these times very happy. I believe his boat owning days were his happiest.

My mom never liked the boat. Or the way it made my dad happy. She would complain that he never spent time with her. He only had time for his boat. I suppose they were like many older couples who had raised a number of children: once the kids were gone my mom and dad were uncertain how they felt about each other and no longer familiar with each other’s traits and interests.

I’m not certain my parents reached the state of dislike that I saw some other older couples reach or that they even thought along those lines. Rather, I think each felt as if he or she was living with a stranger.

It was at this point that my mother admitted to being a boat hater to my father. 

For years, my mother had had a gentle tolerance for my dad’s boat. She went with him for a ride one time, but couldn’t stand the wind and was certain she would get an earache (she did). And for a while, this gentle tolerance worked for them.

It worked while my mother traveled alone to visit her children and grandchildren. It worked when my parents took trips
together to places they had never been. It worked when my siblings and I- who had long since moved out, visited and gave my dad an excuse to go out on his boat.

But over time, as they grew older, as they traveled less, as the visits of their children grew more and more infrequent, it was no longer fine. As the years passed, my mother started to resent the boat and my dad’s regular absences. She grew old and required light nursing care. My father was to supply this and how could he, she asked, if he was always on his boat?

So he sold his boat. He felt he had no choice. He had spent forty some years of his life with my mother and believed, as she did, that now, because of her health it was time to sell the boat, time to re-dedicate himself to my mother. He couldn’t imagine having anyone else take care of her and if it meant selling his boat to ensure he was there for her, then so be it. 

My dad changed when he sold his boat.

He began to look old. His posture, which was usually very erect, appeared to wilt, to soften. His walk, usually very solid,
turned to a shuffle. And his face, which I remember as looking weathered, now looked wrinkled.

He spent his time at home, when normally he would have been on his boat. He read boating books; he subscribed to boating magazines.

He started to take long walks. And long drives. I called this his grieving period.

By the time my dad sold his boat, I had long ago moved out, though I visited several times a year. It was during one of these visits that I decided to follow my dad on one of his drives. On that day I discovered that my dad had become a boat watcher.

I heard him rise one morning and got out of bed myself. I asked what he was doing, though I wouldn’t have had to. He didn’t tell me. But the familiar routine- the boat lover’s routine- was the same. Except it wasn’t quite as joy filled.

He simply said "shhhh" and pressed his fingers tightly to his lips. He filled his thermos, packed his snacks, and left.

I got in my car and followed him. I followed him as he drove to his favorite part of the Mississippi River, a portion with high, rocky bluffs on the Iowa side and low, rolling hills on the Illinois side. I parked next to him and asked him why he was here. His response was simple. "Why, to watch the boats, of course." As if there could not possibly be another answer.

He unpacked his snacks, poured the last cup of coffee from his thermos ("I hope you brought your own," he said), and walked to a park bench that overlooked the river. He set down his snacks and sat himself down as well. And he watched.

My dad watched the cabin cruisers, the pontoon boats, the fishing boats, the pleasure boats, the ski boats, and an occasional canoe. He was fascinated with the barges that transported coal and other products up and down the river to parts unknown to him. He would remark about certain boats. "Why, that barge is full- look- a load of 21." "That cruiser- ain’t she pretty? Must be close to 25 feet." "I had one of those john boats once- right after I got out of the Army."

At one point he leaned over to me and said, "You know, I would have told you about this. I would have asked you along. But I thought you might tell your mother, and I don’t want her to know. You understand, don’t you?"

I assured him I did. We spent the day on the bench, watching boats.

Over the course of the next year, when I visited my parents, I watched my mother’s health fail, my dad’s posture continue to shrink, and the tone of the house become more and more quiet. My mother sat in bed, playing solitaire. My dad sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, reading about boats.

Sometimes when I visited, my dad and I would go watch boats. It was during one of these visits that my dad said to me, "You know, I thought we might try to get out for a while tomorrow. What do you think?" I knew what he wanted- what he needed. I agreed that we should get out. We made no mention of it to my mother.

This time we drove to the dock where he had kept his boat. We walked the dock. He wanted to see it.

The dock was as I remembered it – well worn by weather, the smell of fish and gasoline lingering in the air. A few of the same boats were there; a few unfamiliar boats were there as well.

His boat was still there. It was covered, as it should have been. There were no obvious changes.

Except the sign. On the wood post that supported the roof was a sign with two simple words. "FOR SALE." My dad appeared surprised, though to this day I’m not certain whether or not I believed him.

"Why, look at that," he said, as he wrote down the phone number.

My dad’s shoulders lifted. His eyes twinkled. His fingers moved. The wrinkles in his face softened.

"You know, this boat could be yours. I could help you buy it, and it could be yours. Kind of like an heirloom. Though I guess you don’t really buy heirlooms, someone gives them to you. Either way it could be yours." His voice could hardly contain his excitement. 

I looked at him. My face must have shown surprise. I didn’t speak.

"Not such a good idea, I guess," he said. I saw his body sag, his shoulders slouch.

"No, Dad, no. It’s not that at all. You just caught me off guard," I stammered. "I thought- well- I thought..." I’m not certain
what I thought, so I stopped speaking and walked around the boat.

Countless memories came back. Memories of skiing. Of boat rides. Of jumping off the back. Of lounging in the sun. Memories of my dad smiling. Of him stroking the boat. Of his delight at being in the driver’s seat. Memories of time spent with my dad – discussing my latest boyfriend problems, the teachers at school and later politics, my job, and my new latest boyfriend problem.

"Well, I only have two reasons why I can’t or shouldn’t buy it. One, I can probably afford to buy it, but I’m not certain I can
afford the upkeep. After all, you have to take care of a boat. And two, it should be driven often, but I tend to get kind of busy, and I may not drive it often enough. Then it would just- well, not run right."

My dad eagerly volunteered to be caretaker. This would include maintenance and occasional use, perhaps a weekly cruise to make sure all was running well.

I took the phone number from him. When we got back to his house, I called the owner. After a brief negotiation, I agreed to buy the boat and take over the slip rental. My dad insisted on making the down payment.

We went to get the keys that afternoon. We never told my mother. Instead, we spent the evening packing our "possibles." My dad told me exactly what I needed and why. 

The next morning, bright and early, my dad was in the kitchen, making coffee. I didn’t have to be told to put my cup on a
placemat so it wouldn’t clatter on the table. We climbed into my car, and when I started the engine and left the driveway, I found myself clenching my teeth, holding my breath, and clutching the steering wheel as if to will the car into silence.

Once out of the drive, I looked at my dad, sitting erect next to me, fingers tapping his legs, a smile on his face. He rolled down his window and rested his elbow on the door.

At the dock we unloaded our gear, walked to the slip, and set down our load. We uncovered the boat- stern to bow. My dad looked at the boat, and his eyes glistened. He gave a low wolf whistle and walked around. Stroking it.

We went for a long ride that day. We sat in coves, watched other boats, watched the scenery.

I never told my mom about the boat. She died three months after I bought it. My dad made the funeral and burial
arrangements. My siblings and I attended the funeral. We sat next to my dad in the front of the church. We shook hands with the other mourners. We thanked them for their sympathy.

The morning after my mom’s funeral, I met my dad in the kitchen. We drank a cup of coffee and poured the extra in the
thermos. We left the house to go to the boat.

On the ride that morning, I found myself automatically clenching the steering wheel to will the car to be quiet, then realized I didn’t need to – there was no longer the need for silence, no longer the need for secrecy, no longer the need to sneak out. Part of the adventure of going to the boat with my dad was gone, replaced by sadness and mourning. My dad was looking straight ahead. His normal, joyful, going to the boat demeanor was absent. 

We didn’t speak during the drive to the boat. We didn’t speak as we unloaded our possibles, as we got into the boat, as we left the slip, as we left the no wake zone. I pulled the boat into one of his favorite coves and faced us toward main channel of the river.

"I know this doesn’t seem right," he said, "given that your brothers and sisters aren’t here and given that your mother didn’t like the boat. But I want her to be here when I need her." 

"I understand," I said. With that, I took the lid off the jar of her ashes and sprinkled just a handful into the water. Just enough so that, when he came to the river, he would know that she was with him.