During my first visit to England I sat on the banks of the river next to the Fort St. George, staring at the narrowboats, and announced that I wanted one. After we moved here I went to the Boat Open Day and decided that the idea was feasible; within a few weeks I had purchased one, and it has been a singular joy. When I have to travel for work I dream about my boat. Everywhere I go, I wonder could I moor my boat here?
The idea of letting strangers walk through the boat was too difficult (for many reasons) so I went to the latest Open Day as an observer once again. But we bought Camboaters shirts and sat idly on the decks of other boats, talking about mooring policies and eating biscuits.
One of my new boat friends said So you are a writer?
I nodded.
He asked What do you write?
I replied (as is my custom – or bad habit) Books.
Everyone laughed — which is why I like the people who live on boats. Other sorts of people are confused or offended by my natural reticence.
When Stevie visited she consistently tried to help me with the small tasks I could not perform when we lived in the same town, and for the first time in my life I could say Don’t worry, I’m strong.
I could not reliably turn a doorknob or hold a paintbrush three years ago, but now my wrecked arm is sturdy enough to hold a steel-hulled canal boat against the shore.
Jen K. mailed photographs after her latest visit and when the children opened the envelope they said That is what you really look like, mom.
