Away We Go:The Jessica Ann

A dozen swirls are left behind every time the paddle dips into the water. This is my favorite part, the suspension and the way the drips form perfect circles on the water’s surface. I’m creating circles below and above the surface of the water and then dissipate moments after I’m gone. I can affect and then move on.

There’s enough sun on my shoulders to warm me through my life jacket which partially informs the leisurely pace I’ve adopted. Rare are the moments of alone time and even rarer that they involve sunlight and being on the water.

But I’m also moving slowly to mitigate the wake disturbances from boats passing in the channel. There is no mystery in their approach as people here favor a throaty motor. Most are helmed by folks with a few empties clinking under their seats and the general flow involves pulling up to the sides of this channel, tying up, setting out chairs and coolers, and chatting with ever-expanding groups of friends. One benefit of a self-powered watercraft is hearing bits of conversation and music from passers by. Opinions evidently vary on hard seltzer, the President, fishing coves, and the price of gas.

In sight of my destination, a bridge that came over the Atlantic Ocean in pieces, I hear something odd to my left. I learned the hard way not to turn abruptly while standing balanced on a boat on unpredictable water. So I turn up my ears and try to guess. Not a motorboat, for sure. A kayak maybe but the shadow is too large.

There would have been no possibility to imagine this craft. A sail and two pontoons sit atop a wood platform with potted plants on the bow. Tarps cover duffel bags in the middle and a man sits on the back. He possesses a bandanna, sun-loved skin, one black glove, a double-sided paddle, and bare feet.

Hello there darlin, he song-speaks.

Hello, I say back. Wondering if the origination of this setup could be told in the time it takes me to get to the bridge. If I asked all the questions I already have, it might unbalance me.

It’s a big and a bright and a beautiful day, he says with his head tilted upward. I’m unsure if he’s speaking to me, the sky, or to any mind-altering substances he might be on.

That it is, I agree truthfully.

How about a race, he turns and grins. Redness rims his eyes.

You would beat me by a mile, I respond.

Well, he says back.

He rows on with powerful strokes and he’s almost passed the front of my boat when out of nowhere a question is through my lips. What’s your boat’s name?

What? He turns. Doesn’t have the same balance issues as I do. Clearly accustomed to moving on the water.

Your boat, what do you call her?

Ah, he says. His eyes move down for the first time. He paddles two, three more times. Past the point of easy conversation, but voices travel on the water.

The Jessica Ann. The music in his voice is gone. 

A beautiful name, I say.

She was special.

I can tell.

And away he goes.

Was it your fault? What befell her? Daughter, wife, teacher, or mother? How long ago? What could you not say? Did she ever see her namesake? How often do you think of her? And what about the houseplants?

I have neither the courage to ask nor the strength to catch him. So I make up a few possibilities as I pass under the ancient bridge so clearly out of place in the desert that they had to dig this very channel just to make it cross something. She wears sandals, of that I’m certain. She doesn’t read books all the way to the end. 

I would have been stumped had he asked me the same question. My craft, of course, is less like home. Clearly new, not used for transportation, and less beloved. But if I were to name something in my life that I had the same relationship with as he does with his floating contraption, what would it be? Who is my Jessica Ann? I wonder more sharply about boats named after women.

Like an errant popcorn kernel between my molars, I want to extract his story. I also know that what I imagine won’t be as good as what actually happened. I find myself accepting this tension before he even leaves my view. Sitting peacefully with the unknown has never been my strong suit so maybe it’s something about being out here on the water. 

So he paddled his direction and I paddled mine. I hope that the center of the X where we met let him sit with a few good memories. He was sad when he said her name but maybe a little closer to shore he remembered some better times too.  

As for me, maybe Jessica Ann and the red hair I’ve given her will show up in a story sometime. Other than this one.

This story based on an experience in Lake Havasu, Arizona.