What Things Are Made Of

Without a Paddle

25 Without a Paddle He’s in a small bay: no big breakers here. Still, it’s scary when his motor stalls. So much water; so little him. He pulls the starter-cord hard. Harder. As hard as he can. He checks the gas gauge. Pumps more fuel. Adjusts the choke. Makes sure the motor’s out of gear. He hears other boaters laugh, and understands that he’s a joke: a small man in a small boat, yanking a cord like some one-armed workout-fiend. Then, when he decides to row: no oars! He bobs and dips as bigger boats churn by. Wakes nearly swamp him. One mistake and he’ll be swimming—which he doesn’t, well. Goddamn engine. Goddamn “Rocky” at Rocky Point Marina with these goddamn fucking sad-ass rental boats. His hand is blistered. His back’s giving out. He’s never learned to duel adversity, and win. Right now, he half-expects his mom to motor up and save him as he drifts, leaking outraged dignity. The swells that bounce his boat make submerged rocks rise like sea monsters, so he yanks the cord again. The motor coughs, coughs, dies. He leans over the side to check the prop. His glasses slip off his nose into the brine. He grabs for them; his car keys drop 26 from his coat pocket. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He’s close to crying. His windbreaker is soaked. He yanks the motor cord so hard he falls backward. The Crack! is his new fishing rod. Rocks chew the bottom of his boat. Oh screw the boat! Let Rocky sue. Bastard forgot the required life jacket, too. “This is his damn fault!” he thinks as the first water sloshes over his new shoes. ...