The Ship
by Amos Blanchard (‘21)

It’s not as though I haven’t thought about the boat every once in a while. I remember exactly where we left it. The bow was pressed up against a sandbar, tilted to its side. That made it easier to jump out. Then we ran. I’m not sure where we thought we were going; we knew we would be caught no matter what. I remember taking one last look back at the ship we had spent all summer fixing up. That’s what we called it. A ship. What we had stolen was a boat, but it was a ship now.

I was fourteen. Or maybe fifteen. She was sixteen. We took the boat right from the beach. No one even noticed that it was gone. She grew up around boats, and my dad was a carpenter, so we both knew enough to get it to the point where it could float. 

We replaced almost all the wood, sanded it, painted it, and even put some nice cushions down to sit on. It took us weeks. Every day that summer I would ride my bike down to the cove. We would mostly work in silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty, that occurs when you’re alone with a true companion. When we did talk though, aside from our conversations about the boat, it was always about the future. We talked about our dreams, big and small. From what we wanted to have for dinner that night to what kind of house we wanted to retire in.  I remember one day she told me she had never had a friend like me. I smiled.

When the boat was finally done, we took it out into the bay. We were so proud when it actually floated. We hugged and cheered. That was the best I would feel for a long time. Then they found us. Apparently you need a license to operate a boat. Gas too. You also need to go to school on the weekdays. The boat crashed into the shore. We ran. I looked back at the ship. I smiled.