This boat sits in the marina by my home. I walk by three times a day with Jack.
At night, the warm light within makes it special. A man sits at the small table inside and works on a large wooden boat model. Jack and I slow to glance over every evening.
The man sits alone, no music I can hear, glasses perched on his nose. He’s focused on his project and has no idea he and his light are an anticipated part of our passage.
There are many boats in the harbor: expensive powerboats, sleek sailboats, and randy fishing rigs. They are all floating characters, but this boat at night is a story.
Sometimes I think the man inside is alone or lonely. Other times I imagine he has a whole house full of people and escapes under the guise of “checking the boat.”
He is bald, often shirtless, and serious about this wooden model. His boat is older in a way that makes a statement in sunlight and a whisper among the stars.
The man is old too.
I am not sure we have much in common, and I don’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t want to chat with me either. He’s busy. I’m walking.
I just hope he has another model lined up once this one is finished because I like his boat. I like counting on him and his light. I’m sure his work will be done one day, and the boat will go dark, but hopefully not tomorrow or the next night either.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Night Light.