The Boat Mender – Part 1: Planking

"Never fight the grain," said Matteo.

Oliver held the plane over the plank of larch. It was thirty degrees in the Venice boatyard, the lagoon flat and shining beyond the open doors, and sawdust drifted in the heat like snow. He was thirty, from Bristol, holding a degree in history and a plane he did not understand.

"Like this?"

"Gentler."

Matteo was thirty-three, broad, olive-skinned, in a stained singlet, with strong brown hands and an unhurried voice. He had run the squero since his father died. He had not wanted an apprentice. But the English office had written, and the girl at the agency had cried, and here was this tall pale man with a notebook, looking determined.

Matteo stood behind him and placed his hands over Oliver's. "Feel the wood. It will tell you."

The plane glided. A long curl of larch peeled up, fragrant and golden.

"Oh," said Oliver.

"Yes."

For weeks he came at dawn. He learned to read grain, to caulk a seam, to steam a plank to bend it. His hands blistered. His skin browned. At noon, they ate bread and cheese on the dock with their feet over the water, while gondolas slid past and old men argued in dialect.

"Can I ask you something?" said Oliver.

"Yes."

"Why do you still do this? The tourists don't know the difference."

"The boat knows," said Matteo. "And I know."

Oliver studied him. "You're the first person I've met who works for the thing itself."

"Green?" said Matteo, a word from Oliver's notebook.

"Green," said Oliver, startled and flushed. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Launch.