The Rowboat Story - native orchids and lavender growing and cooking in connecticut

The Rowboat Story (1991)

Valerie Allgrove

Its springtime and my thoughts have been turning to past summers when I was at my parent's cottage in New Hampshire. Especially on warm, still nights, I feel my blood stir with anticipation.

I'm thinking about our old rowboat and how it feels to sit in it on the lake at night.

Lying in my rowboat, my mind can drift away from all the struggles in my life. I feel like I am part of the night. The boat rocks with a slow slapping sound as the light breeze brushes my toes.

Darting bats chase echoes around the shore. They venture out to where I dream, bouncing their auditory beacons off the boat, drawn to it but never coming closer than a rustle of wings. It's rare that a mosquito strays from her land-based patrol beat to invade my airspace.

The trees form a dark edging around the brilliantly lit up sky. The center thwart, or seat, is just big enough so that a short person like myself can stretch out across it; padding the rail with a boat cushion on each end. Reclining there with my bare feet sticking up over the side, I can look up at the stars.

When the moon is absent, the Milky Way shines with a silvery glow. Some of the stars look like they are close enough to speak with. There is a serenity and peacefulness contained in their ancient light, as if to remind me that whatever is bothering me is not permanent, and not worth fretting over in cosmic terms.

It can be chilly in the boat late at night. In August it's beginning to get cold at Stone Pond, and the dew is icy cold on the grass in the morning. But it is worth shivering with cold while I snuggle into a blanket and watch the meteor showers that streak across the sky. Dying, they burn with a "notice me!" intensity, as if to dare their kin who evade the gravity well into following this example.

The slow motion of the boat lulls me into a state of drifting, inspiring new ideas for my writing and giving me a deeper perspective on life.

Returning to my mundane life, I try to hold onto the memory of the nights in the rowboat. It's easy to lose my cool in the hectic pulse of the city. It's easy to forget about the calm detachment of those summer evenings. But on warm spring nights, the memories come flooding back.