It truly was a fine Oregon winter day by the river. It is a good thing to live near a river and have a daily relationship to it. I always think fresh thoughts when attending.
Why was I so fascinated by this tiny human drama unfolding on the river? I had no idea who the characters were or how they came to serve as captains in the fleet of the New American Diaspora. It occurred to me that they both must have had previous sailing experience. Or did they? Maybe they discovered derelict boats in derelict moorages (plenty of them in navigable waters in Oregon), borrowed or commandeered the vessels, and then made it up on their own to survive as situations arose.
By now, several other park goers and their dogs came over to watch the operation. They must have been drawn by the cursing and two men working to fix a boating problem on a dangerous river in the middle of a big city.
It wasn't over. The no name captain loaded the skiff with the anchor and rope and paddled out into the river again. He threw the anchor out and then began reeling it in again. Several times the skiff nearly foundered. The man was screaming, “This is fucking dumb! I am going to fucking die. FUUUUUUCKCKCKCKKCKCKKCKCK! I'm fucking done!”
He hauled in the anchor and rope again. He called to the captain of the Now Voyager for help. Ten minutes later he was back on the dock. He caught a breather, then loaded the skiff with the anchor and rope and paddled to his boat. He tied up to it, threw the anchor and rope on the deck and ducked under the tarp and went into the quarters area. A minute later he emerged smoking a cigarette. He smoked for a minute or two and then went back to work on the anchor and some other apparatus I couldn't see.
Five minutes later, he threw the anchor and rope off the boat into the river. The rope was attached to the boat. A few seconds later, the boat stopped twirling and more or less remained still in the current.
Somehow the problem with the anchor was solved. Perhaps he'd found the right position for the anchor so it could withstand the formidable current and hold the boat in place. Perhaps he was able to tighten up something with the rope and chain. Perhaps it was sheer dumb luck, although it didn't look like it. This captain obviously had knowledge of these anchoring matters, at least with boats. As for life, who knew? What are those anchors in our lives that keep us safe when the waters tumble and rise? Without them, we are adrift, possibly forever.
When the boat stopped twirling, the captain of the Now Voyager started cheering. Somehow their collaboration had worked. And they hadn't quit. There's still something to that in American life, and I would know better than anyone.
The captain of the no name boat sat on something on the deck. A dog emerged from the quarters! A fat white and black pitbull/bulldog mutt! I could not believe it. He looked like the perfect first mate, and in fact had a black spot over his left eye that resembled an eye patch. He stood on the edge of the deck and surveyed the river.
Oh joy! A dog in the story, river dog of the Diaspora. The man hustled over the side and into the skiff. He said something to the dog and the dog jumped in, sending up a splash. What the hell? The captain and dog were coming ashore!
Seconds later, the captain and first mate were on the dock. The dog did not take a shit on the dock. The man lit up a cigarette and struck up a conversation with the captain of the Now Voyager. The dog came ashore on his own and took a dump.
It was time to leave. I took a final look at the two captains. It appeared as if there were getting into some grog.
I walked away thinking about all things anchors. About an anchor not working or not working well enough. I thought about anchors in my lives and the ones that fell away in my recent personal storm. I can't say I ever threw one away. I can say some were made of plastic and I didn't know it until the big waves hit.
I can go a hundred ways with this anchor metaphor while observing and interacting with members of the New American Diaspora. But really, it doesn't feel like a metaphor at all.
We are all adrift… in our own ways…the only anchors are the love we find along the way…temporary perhaps…but life is temporary…follow the river