Bay Crossings Journal
WATERBIKES
By bill coolidge
It’s an all out hustle. Jump
from the boat, grab four lines, tie one down, Keep the boat from going forward
and colliding with the green canoe. Take the engine out of reverse, put it in
neutral, pray no gusts slant in and ruin a good docking. But in that leap,
just two feet, from boat to dock, just one error occurred where there should
have been none.
I, grabbing the blue rope,
tripped slightly as the rope caught on a cleat and I fell into the blue,
parked, bike on the dock. It tipped, I with one hand, body careening, tried to
grab it. Down on my hands and knees, I feel the bumpy tread of black tire but
all I see is some spooky Alfred Hitchcock scene of blue bike descending into
scary chaos and what I am left with is the sound "gurgle, gurgle,
gurgle."
On my knees, looking down, no
prayer is going to bring my bike up, I am astonished at it all. My mistake,
the margin of error, two seconds, and I am emptied of a good friend. My odd,
strange looking portabike, Icabod Crane neck, I appear to be an adult and a
youngster, the seat, 18 inches above frame, as if I am growing up too fast,
and the bike can’t catch up.
Help was offered but was
pilfered away. "I’ll get you a grappling hook, offered a neighbor but
then he took off for the weekend. "I’ll be over tomorrow
afternoon," said another neighbor, a scuba diver but he didn’t appeare
for three more days. Another friend who dives, well he didn’t return my
call. I dream of wild and wierd aquariums, feel plenty restless because of
what lies beneath me. I don’t want to go to to sleep even though the boat
rocks and a cool northwestern wind forces me to cuddle up in my comforter.
I had been reckless, the
accident happened because I was careless. As if the bike has a soul, a life,
that I drowned and now sits below getting entangled with seaweed, encrusted
with mussels, tidal currents sweeping back and forth. For me, a nightmare.
I can’t stand it any longer.
On Tuesday, four long days later, I walk down the dock to a friend and ask for
help. "Well, I’ve got an anchor, I used it to bring my bike up when a
gust of wind hit it, but I couldn’t find the bike. Want to give it a
try?"
He bites the upper part of his
moustache, his round hat curling inward, glare of sun shuttled off. We are
standing there, feeling how tentative this life is, a shot in the dark, how
the ocean takes but seldom gives back. "But this was an offer, no matter
if he isn’t hopeful, I’ve got to do something." I say to myself.
It’s like trolling. I throw
the anchor out, let it sink 30 feet to the bottom and then I drag back and
forth along the dock. No luck. I throw the anchor over the other side of the
dock in case the currents are really strong down there in the mucky, silty
bottom. Almost at once, the anchor snags onto something. My heart leaps, as if
a big fish has taken the bite.
Slowly I drag this heavy mystery
up, not wanting to lose my fetch on the prize. I bend my knees, hunch my back
over to see what I have caught. Hand over hand, "this sure takes a long
time," I think. The rope is curling all around my feet, then suddenly,
just 3 feet down I see it! It’s a bike!
But not my blue one. It looks
like a bad dream, a brown crab jumps off at the last moment. Spokes are
broken, sluckly black mud is everywhere. I haul it onto the dock. I stare at
it, as if I have been rummaging around in my basement and discovered something
I had misplaced years ago. And I have.
This encrusted, seaweeded,
falling apart bike is mine.
A year ago, last summer a friend
stayed on my boat for a month and when I returned I looked for my bike and he
said it was missing. "Probably stolen." Hands on hips, like it didn’t
mean anything. Just a bike. I still hold it against him. But here it is,
probably swept off the dock by a big swell, or high wind, living below me for
a year as a catchment for fish to swarm, crustaceans to hide in and mussels
attaching to frame, call home.
I pull out my green hose and
wash it off, but it’s a lost cause, the bike looks no better, in fact the
decay is more noticeable. Time for the dumpster. I decide to swing the anchor
way out beyond my boat and troll under her. On my third throw I hit paydirt! A
thud, a catch. I pull slowly, hoping someone will come by and notice my
success but it’s midweek, no one is around. Hand over hand I bring the wet,
slimey rope up. My back begins to hurt. No matter.
There it is, the shiny blue
appears first, then tires and seat. My bike. Seaweed woven through the basket,
black mud institched into gears, spokes, chain. I blast it with water. Then I
wash her with soap and water, as if she has just returned from an arduous
voyage. Gently. Still nobody has walked by so I check the tires, play with the
gears, get on her, as if taming a gelding. And ride off. Everything works,
brakes, gears, pedals. I put the standard down, walk around the blue bike,
proudly. Patting myself on the back.
While trolling, a seagull passed
by, lost interest and sailed on. A commerant came up for air, ducked back down
into blackish water and my favorite, the least tern came up the channel,
barely looked at me before winging its way out to the estuary. Standing there
on the dock, I am still alone. So mine was a private victory. No one saw me
catch the big one. I am plenty grateful. It’s like the return of the
prodigal, but I’m not sure who the prodigal is, me or the bike?
