I don’t know what possessed me. But I can tell you it wasn’t just one thing. Recent events that led to the epiphany, if you can call it that, were set in motion by the massive Nor’Easter this past winter. We had a lot of trees come down on the property, big ones too. When spring came around I saw the damage done to the trampoline- wrecked- as well the old wooden wheel-barrow my partner inherited from her grandfather. Amazingly, the little pram that sat by the edge of the lawn was untouched, yet fallen timber was splayed all around it. That boxy boat hadn’t sailed in ages, I figured it’d make a good sandbox for the grandkids someday. “Shoebox is more like it,” partner posited. I offered no rejoinder.
Maybe it was all the screens. Or the news. Or the rampant selfishness, greed, stupidity, privilege… that seemed on the rise everywhere. Maybe I was tired of carrying the burden of disappointment on top of so much hyper-mediated inundation. In any case, the idea to time-travel a bit on my own terms was hatched, eccentric and odd yes, yet strangely edifying too. My partner knew it was better to let a notion like this run its course rather than trying to talk sense into me. And in fact the idea of restoring the wooden boat with salvaged natural elements from the storm, making spars and oars from tree limbs, using the intact canvas as a sail, and fashioning wheelbarrow handles and its smashed sides into a rudder- Yeah it was kooky I’ll admit- but I had the tools and time, and it’s a fact, a bit of ingenuity and effort mixed with fun can keep the wolf from the door- psychologically speaking.
Another facet, something I’ve relished about living here, the vistas along the river and in the mountains, scenes that are as they were hundreds of years ago. Or even longer. Thinking about First People, and how they lived always held a fascination for me. I knew The Meadows was a meeting place for the Abenaki, and submerged somewhere were Petroglyphs. Narratives have power. They may be fabricated but nonetheless an organizing idea can serve as major motivation. Somehow these elements coalesced into this project where I would restore the boat in its most primitive form, and sail it down the Connecticut and into the place of confluence with the West River. A spot where the legacy is people from a time before we got here plying these shores and enjoying a plentiful existence.
I chewed on the concept for awhile and don’t think I would have actually done it were it not for the chain of natural (or man made) disasters that bombarded the news cycle. Fires, Earthquakes, Hurricanes, Floods…The build-up was palpable. It wasn’t a prepper’s sense of ‘what if’ that moved me, more a hypothetical take on that predicament. What if I had to save myself with items at hand to survive? Add this nugget to some local lore and adventure, it seemed time well spent. What better way to spend retirement than shooting for the moon?
The scow, or whatever it was, came together pretty nicely. I used a lug rig set-up, one of the more primitive ways to set a sail. From limbs trimmed and cleaned I made a mast and two spars, one for the boom, the other suspended above diagonally, a yard arm is the term, I believe. I fit and lashed the canvas from the trampoline, tied lines to the poles and ran it through a hole drilled at the masthead. The tiller/rudder set-up was screwed into a pin fastened to the back of the stern that allowed the unit to swivel. I notched a spot for an oar to be sculled, rather than going into the complication of oarlocks. The dink looked damn good if I say so myself, but would it float? As a test I filled the deck with water. It didn’t leak, so on the reasoning that if water couldn’t get out, it wouldn’t get in, I called the vessel “sea-worthy”.
Now to be clear, I knew I was a bit out over the tips of my skis, so to speak. There was no fear of failure though, the process itself was already a victory of sorts. As the relentless rains of summer went on, I searched for a window of wind and weather, a day where aspects would be in my favor as much as possible. If I put in up in Dummerston, and the current and breeze worked together, as long as I could keep a line I’d get to the cut in the river where I would enter The Meadows. Leaves were spewing colors, if I stayed dry and the voyage came off, it’d be glorious. As the plan became more real a chain of thoughts added to my resolve. Starting from Dummerston, named after the Governor, the designation given to Fort Dummer. The outpost built to fight the original inhabitants who dwelt here before any European laid claim to the land. So many things we take for granted.
The hull was strapped to my car top, spars and tackle thrown in the back, I head out to the launch. The day was crisp, cold compared to summer. Luckily, happily, nobody was around when I assembled the craft, hauled up the halyard, and pushed off. Trepidation, anxiety, excitement was surging. Almost immediately a fresh gust arrived and the sail flopped over the beam. Having rigged a main sheet, I pulled in the boom a little bit. The canvas filled, and we were being blown down river. I knew prospects of upwind progress were not going to be good, that was a big factor in choice of days to embark. I didn’t want to have to tack frequently, zig-zagging in a boat that I wasn’t sure would even stay upright.
We were making headway. In fact the helm was fairly responsive, not a struggle at all to steer. The current and wind seemed to smooth our course. Once necessities of functionality were addressed and we were in motion, it wasn’t long until my mind began to wander. Certain stretches of river had no houses, it was easy to imagine the bank, seemingly timeless but for seasonal changes. The First People, families, children and elders, their homes, their place in it assured as anything in this transient world can be. What limits would Dummer test, what boundaries pushed? What cost to defend all they knew would be exacted? There was something old in the newness and novelty of this moment.
Fairly quickly, as the clock goes, I was approaching the Chesterfield Bridge. Whatever spell had been set was broken by the rumble of trucks on steel and asphalt. From that pass to the Iron Railroad bridge took no time at all. I leaned into the turn and was at last in The Meadows. You would have to look closely to notice anything strange about the scene. An old boat that floated. I lowered the sail and drifted, using the oar to tweak my position every now and again. I knew it was unlikely I’d see the Petroglyphs, but just knowing they were there gave a charge to the experience. I stayed out until dusk, and before pulling into the boat ramp I took in all that was arrayed before my senses. There was something new in the oldness of the moment. The battles, the bounties. The flow of all there is.
