The Boat Mender – Part 2: Launch

They launched the boat at dawn.

It was a small black sandolo, restored plank by plank over four months, its hull gleaming with fresh varnish, its oars carved by Oliver's own hand. Matteo and Oliver slid it down the slipway into the green water, and it floated as if it had always belonged there, riding high and sweet.

"She's floating," whispered Oliver.

"She's perfect."

"We did that."

"You did that. I held the boat."

Dawn spread over the lagoon in pearl and rose. Mist rose from the water. Far off, a vaporetto chugged. The boatyard was silent and golden, and a gull stood on a piling, watching.

Oliver stepped aboard, took the oar, and pushed off. The sandolo glided across the water, quiet as breathing. Matteo stood on the dock, watching him, his chest tight.

When Oliver brought it back, he held the boat against the dock with one hand, and held out the other.

"Come."

They rowed out together, past the sleeping houses and the shuttered windows, into a channel pink with light. Neither spoke. The oars dipped and rose. Water chuckled under the bow.

"Can I ask you something?" said Matteo.

"Yes."

"Do you want to stay? Not as apprentice."

"I was going to ask you," said Oliver, "what I'd have to do."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Oliver. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to row standing up."

"That takes years."

"I know."

Matteo leaned forward and kissed him, the boat rocking gently, his hands rising to Oliver's jaw. It tasted of salt and coffee and larch. Oliver kissed him back with careful, answering sweetness. The light turned gold on the water.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Oliver.

"Green," said Matteo. "Very green."

The sign on the boatyard now reads Squero Matteo e Oliver. Repairs and restoration. The English lettering is slightly crooked. Nobody has fixed it.

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