Writing

I have written, read to an audience of writers, solicited their critique and have rewritten 1788 words in the past three weeks. While the rate of progress has been slow and what I have is good, I don’t know why I am writing it.

My objective in Florida was to write about what happened after I left the Cosmic Muffin. I’m not writing about that. Instead I have been writing about my father’s kayak. The truth about the origins of the canvas boat was shared last summer when a boyhood friend of my Dad’s came to Mom’s memorial. After the service Dad, his friend and my uncle were telling stories of their boyhood home back in Ogdensburg, New Jersey. Dirk, my father’s friend revealed that he had stolen the kayak.

This piece of information surprised all of us. My mother always accused Dad of stealing it and he never denied this nor offered any other defense. Never hearing any other details but knowing that my parents lived in Saranac Lake many years ago and the kayak being quite old I assumed Dad found and took the boat from some unsuspecting mountain man in the Adirondacks.

I have begun the new tale using the few facts I now have. My story however is fiction. At my present rate, it will take three years before it is completed, but I want to share the beginning. Enjoy.

Dirk Salazar looked up to see the sun sparkle through the maple leaves. Under the tree’s massive branches the day did not seem as stifling and if he stood still long enough he could feel the slight breeze that tickled the leaves. The cooler weather of autumn and shorter days had yet to turn the leaves a brilliant red, but the dry summer had tinged the foliage a dirty yellow and caused the tree to prematurely begin to lose its cover. Had he been listening he would have heard the squabble of blue jays disturbed from their roost when the two boys dropped the kayak in the shade. Instead his attention turned to his brother’s deep sigh.

Dirk looked back at his younger brother, three years his junior and acknowledged him with his quick smile. Alonzo slumped next to the maple feeling its bark press his sweat stained t-shirt against his back. The wet cotton felt cool, but offered little relief from the late summer heat or the chore in which his brother had enlisted him. Alonso still carried traces of his chubby baby fat at age thirteen, the result of his Mexican mother’s pride to see that her two teenage boys were well fed and greatly fussed over.

He wanted to complain about being tired and hot. He rubbed his aching muscles while he watched Dirk dig a crumpled cigarette out of the front pocket of his jeans. Alonso knew his older brother would not tolerate his whining. He acknowledged his brother’s smile with his own then he closed his eyes and wished they were closer to their destination. His belly growled with hunger as he thought of the dinner his mother would have waiting for them. He imagined her in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour from making tortillas. He hoped she had made his favorite meal—tamales.

Dirk had gently awakened Alonso before sun rise, whispering softly a promise to swim at Lake Mohawk seven miles away near the town of Sparta. As the sun rose over the cow pastures and corn fields of northern New Jersey, the two teenagers caught a ride sitting in the back of a dairy farmer’s 1937 pickup. The smell of hay and manure filled the truck, a familiar odor to both boys although their father made a living as miner employed by the local zinc company. The thin fog that collected along with banks of the narrow stream that paralleled the windy road between Ogdensburg and Sparta burnt off as the sun rose higher in the sky. Before long, Alonso dozed off resting his head on a couple of bales of hay.

Despite his eagerness to get to the lake Dirk patiently enjoyed the ride through the little valley. A week early he had discovered the kayak. It appeared to be abandoned. The canvas covered boat had been sitting in the tall cat tails near a deserted footpath. When he had turned the boat over the two man cockpit served as a home for a family of field mice and one rather homely possum that snarled at Dirk before seeing a quick escape as a wiser strategy. Upon inspection he noticed a few of the wooden ribs had been cracked and while the canvas remained in tact the summer’s sun had weaken the covering. There were no paddles. He had never seen a boat like this before, but he knew it was a kayak. In his social studied class he had learned about the Eskimos who used a similar boat for hunting seals. Dirk planned to return to get the boat and unknown to Alonso he had been recruited to help carry the nineteen foot long boat back to Ogdensburg.

The farmer rapped the side of his truck indicating that he reached his turn off and their ride came to an end. As they scrambled out of the truck Dirk slapped at a few pieces of straw stuck in Alonso’s thick black hair. It brought an opportunity to pick a friendly fight with his brother. The morning dew soaked the legs of their jeans as they chased each other across an open field toward the lake, still quiet from the night resembling a silver platter. The boys flushed a covey of quail from the low bush which momentarily surprised them bringing them to a quick and quiet halt as they watched in awe the birds appear and disappear as quickly as a dream.

“Come on,” Dirk directed, bringing Alonso out of his struck wonder. Dirk preferred to go directly to where the kayak laid in the weeds, and begin the long trip back home before the day became too hot, but he had promised Alonso a swim and he would keep his word. Alonso had been here before and knew where the best swimming hole hid, yet he relied on his older brother to lead the way as if Dirk took him there for the very first time.

By mid-morning they reached the short rise. Just beyond, a deep pool tucked under a rock cliff made a perfect spot for diving. The outcrop would not shade the shore until late afternoon. The rocks below bathed in the sun’s rays were known to be the best place to dry and warm up after spending hours in the cool waters offered by the northern lake. School had not started but, they had the place to themselves. The Salazars were sons of a miner, not a farmer and did not spend their summer days toiling in the many fields and barns of Sussex County. This did not mean the boys did not have chores and responsibilities around their home—chickens and pigs were kept in the back yards of nearly every family living on Bridge Street and their family was no exception. Before leaving the house, both boys tended to the needs of the animals.

Noontime hunger and the cold water chased the two teenagers out of the water. They took refuge on the marble rocks. If the two boys could have been seen from the sky, their cinnamon-colored bodies naked except for tee shirts modestly draped over their lower waists would have looked like two crucifixions spread-eagle on the smooth rocks. From a small paper bag Dirk tucked inside his tee shirt before leaving the house that morning, Dirk gave Alonso a tortilla. When they first arrived at the swimming hole, he placed the bag on the rocks to allow the bread to absorb the sun’s warmth. Dirk quickly at his meal while Alonso slowly ate a series of holes in his flat bread. As he chewed each bite he held the bread to the sky using it like a flat telescope and stared at the clouds gentle passing over head. The flat bread quelled their hunger.

Dirk knew that if they were to reach home before dark, they needed to get the kayak and begin their journey. Unsure if the boat would be where he found it he decided to check before telling Alonso about what he found. His brother continued to play with his food. “Stay here,” he commanded as he wiggled into his jeans. Alonso acknowledged Dirk’s order momentarily interrupting his cloud-gazing to meet his brother’s eyes. No other words were needed. Alonso instinctively knew not to ask where his brother was going, or to ask if he could tag along.

When Dirk returned he found Alonso sleeping right where he left him. Using the end of a thin stick, he gently brushed the brown skin of his brother’s ribs, stirring an unconscious swatting from his Alonso’s hand. Again he ran the stick lightly down his side mimicking the light touch of an insect. From his slumber the young boy became aware of the intrusion and thinking it might be a spider he hastily sat up swiping away at the annoyance. Dirk laughed. His brother’s slight irritation suddenly vanished when Dirk announced, “Put your clothes on. I found something.”

Alonso silently followed him around the perimeter of the lake on the narrow footpath wore down by boys, fishermen and hunters who seldom used the trails at the same time of year. Where the land leveled off and became marshy the path split off in different direction, avoiding the wettest parts of the swamp. The late summer and dryer year allowed Dirk to follow the path closest to the lake’s edge. There he found the kayak, just as he had left it.

Alonso’s eyes widened. “A canoe!”

“It’s a kayak,” Dirk corrected without acknowledging his brother’s mistake.

“Like the Eskimos.” His statement had more of a tone of wonder than question. Alonso’s mind raced as he thought of how the Eskimos got to New Jersey and where they were at that moment. Despite the summer day, he imagined the men dressed in heavy seal skins their hoods pulled up over their heads. He looked toward the marsh expecting to see them, but all he saw were the dried cattails every so slowly dancing in the slight breeze.

Alonso had never been on a boat. He had been on several home-built rafts constructed by Dirk with the help of his friends. The assemblage of barrels salvaged from the mine and scrap lumber pilfered from various construction sites became imaginary pirate ships launched on Heater’s Pond. His water bound experiences had not been pleasant, for as the youngest, but not always the smallest, he was never the captain or mate and usually one of the first boys tossed off the ship when war broke out.

He wanted to go out on the lake in the kayak, even without the paddles, but he would not suggest or ask. However, he never anticipated Dirk’s plan to take the boat and his excitement turned to reservations. He looked back over the marsh waiting for the Eskimos to return. Alonso rarely challenged his brother and Dirk had not foreseen his younger brother’s protest, but he laughed when Alonso blurted, “what about the Eskimos when they come back?”

“There aren’t any Eskimos.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Dirk had known about the kayak for week, but he had not thought that far ahead. His plan had been nothing more than an urge to take the boat because he reasoned anyone who wanted it would not have left it there. Nevertheless, he looked around to be sure the owner did not lurk in the marsh and then he ordered Alonso to take the bow while he picked up the stern and they began to carry the boat home, stern first, Dirk lead the way. By the time they reached the maple tree, both boys were exhausted and the afternoon sun would soon disappear behind the ridge.