The Club Island Boatman

A good man can build four boats a year,
if he has the hands and likes to work, if
he tends his tools and knows the wood.
This boat--a man's granchildren could learn
their knots stowing her at berth, learn
the river, the ways and life of it.

Old warships, they'd slake the caulk
with a bit of blood to bind the hull whole.
That magic I can understand. Some things
are meant to be taken serious. You'd not know
from today, mellow and mild, but this river,
even tamed by dams and locks, kills the careless.

You put out from the lee shore, the breeze
invigorates. You head for the farside, Canada,
the wind at your back, glorious. You come
about and all you see is black stormcloud
from here to Minnesota, the squall lines,
whitecaps and fog, between you and the marina.

That's when you need a real boat, light
and tight to shed the breaking water,
clean-lined and supple to slice the spray
toward home. You pray that every joint
and seam is sound, pray that luck,
skill and savvy can last you to land.

Four boats most years, maybe a hundred
in a lifetime. That should be enough. Half
might still run the river by the time you die,
if you're choosy who you sell to. Dad used to say,
"Bad work is its own punishment." Good work
will take another month. I'll see you come July.

Poem © Dale Hobson. All rights reserved.
Engraving © Greg Lago. All rights reserved.