It was another sunny Sunday afternoon visit to their favorite taproom. Two guys and two gals, enjoying some local craft beer. They’d been boating there for years in the summer, since before they retired.
The procedure of tying and later untying from the dock at departure had become so familiar that very little verbal communication was necessary.
The girls paid no mind as they stepped back on board, chatting away.
Melvin would untie the back first and take his place at the wheel. Henry would untie the front and when he observed Melvin ready, would step on board with a kick against the dock to push the bow away. Melvin would start the engine and off they’d go. It had become as commonplace as departing in a car.
Except for today.
The girls were discussing grandkids. Melvin was readying himself and preparing to turn the ignition (and not yet looking toward Henry). No one saw the instant he lost his footing. But each was shocked by the commotion and splash, unaware Henry’s head banged against the dock on his way under the boat.
A chilling silence descended, heavier than the turbid brown canal that swallowed him whole.
Henry’s wife, Cheryl, yelled out in vain, “Henry? Henry, are you okay?”
Melvin jumped from the helm to the side. The water, so placid a moment before, now showed only widening ripples as they drifted from the dock.
Seconds stretched to eternity. The initial shock gave way to dread when Henry didn’t immediately reappear.
Then a hat broke the surface, emerging from the brown soup: a tan baseball cap featuring the logo of Henry’s favorite beer.
Melvin, once a teenage lifeguard, commanded his wife, “Mary, call 911!”, as he calculated the angle of his dive to intersect the 12-foot bottom under the hat.
Six weeks later and still under doctor’s orders to take it easy, there was some unrest in the air as Henry carefully completed the dock push-off and sat down next to the quiet girls.
Melvin started the engines.
Henry slightly grinned, “Melvin, there’s a reason they advise people not to go in this water. What drove you to jump into this dirty muck after an old, overweight geezer, when you haven’t been swimming in half a century?”
All eyes and ears were directed to the captain of the boat. “I knew next time it would be your turn to buy.”
by George Alger
Visit the archive to see the latest or GeorgeAlger.com to see even more.
Enter your email below to join the readers of Liminal Stories.