The Boat Shop – Part 1: The Skiff

"She's rotten at the stern," said Walter. "But the keel is sound."

Joyce looked at the old skiff on the sawhorses in the boat shop, grey and weathered, with a split along one side and a nameplate that read Marjorie. She was fifty-nine, a retired schoolteacher from Boston, in a wool coat and sensible boots, holding a thermos of tea she had not offered anyone. It was October on the Maine coast, and the wide door of the shop stood open on a view of grey water and bobbing masts.

"Can it be saved?"

"Yes."

"It was my husband's."

"I thought so." The boatbuilder, sixty-five, big and stooped, in a canvas apron and a flat cap, with a white beard, enormous scarred hands and a quiet, grave voice, ran a thumb along the gunwale. "She's been loved. You can tell by the wear."

His name was Walter. He had built boats on this harbour for forty years. The shop smelled of cedar and varnish and linseed oil, with shavings curled on the floor like golden ribbons. Tools hung in tidy rows on the wall. A radio murmured in a corner.

"How long?"

"Three months. Maybe four."

"May I watch?"

"If you don't mind sawdust."

She came every afternoon. She sat on a stool by the stove with her thermos while he worked, planing, steaming, clamping, fitting new planks into the old frame. He didn't talk much. He hummed. Sometimes he explained: this is the garboard; that is a rib; this one wants to bend a little here. She asked questions. He answered. The skiff slowly regained its shape.

One evening in November, as the light turned amber over the harbour, he laid down his plane and said, "You loved him very much."

Her throat caught. "Forty years."

"I could tell. From how you sit with her."

"I haven't cried."

"You will. The boat will let you."

She looked at him. His eyes were grey and tender, with a deep fold of sorrow at the corners.

"Can I ask you something?" said Joyce.

"Yes."

"Did you lose someone?"

"Green?" said Walter, a paint chip, a hull colour. "I did. And I painted a lot of boats. Very green."

She laughed, unexpectedly, wetly. "Very green," she agreed.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Launch Day.