Lightning’s Edge

I thought the boat I made to sail from the edge of the pond was incredible. It was painted entirely black with a lightning bolt down the middle. I felt I was there on the boat before I placed it gently in the water, just beyond the reaches of the mud — enough of a head-start I thought, in case it had to battle a small gust before reaching the deeper depths of a rather shallow pond.

To my discovery, it simply teetered back and forth and hardly much else. I started to scrutinize why this was happening with my eight year old mind. I felt I didn’t really care, in the end, but was mostly intrigued by the idea that this boat had a lightning bolt that I painted down the center of its cardboard mast sail.

I soon wanted to know how I was going to get the boat back, and, really hadn’t thought that far ahead, but rather, was mostly interested in seeing it in a domineering state on its first voyage. I think I was expecting an aura projected by the reflection of the sun off its perfectly centered lightning bolt. Rather, I found myself partially wading in the mud trying to pry “Lightning” back with my pointer finger, just out of reach, I attempted to use my middle finger. I soon realized I would need to wade even farther into the water, past the swamp grass and just where it started to get deep. And, so I did.

I retrieved Lightning, but, decided I really didn’t want the boat at this point as it failed to live up to the grandeur my mind had crafted when earlier painting Lightning, and, carefully creating the two “twists” in the lightning bolt down the middle of the mast. I carried what I now just simply thought of as a boat (not Lightning) close to my side, as if I was walking to a friend’s house with my football. It was no longer something I wanted to carry with both hands directly in front of me.

I returned home unsure of what to do with Lightning, the boat — I mean. I put it down gently as if it had just returned from battling the swells in the pond, but, knowing just the opposite was true. I then stared at it, thinking about the amount of work I put into it, from pairing two pieces of wood to its ballast to make-up its sides to making sure I had glued all of its seams. I then started seeing “the boat” as Lightning, once again. Lightning embodied all that I had to give it at that time. I knew that I had given it every chance of succeeding, yet it didn’t succeed in the way I was imaging.

Lightning was a start. It was never meant to be anything more. As an eight-year old at the time, I simply felt that Lightning was not about the boat, but rather, about what I felt as I was starting to expect more of myself. Like Lightning, I may need a push past “the edge,” but, whether, I am able to go farther out on my own is not always guaranteed.

I then shifted my eyes away from Lightning, resting peacefully in the middle of my room, and, picked up my football. I left the house not sure if I would find my friends to toss the ball and hopefully start a game, but, knew that I was in the mood to try — even if they were all older kids.