I’ve always had a fascination with water, whether it was watching the tide slowly rise or the trickle of a tiny spring coming out of a hillside. The run that flowed through the hollow below our house afforded many an opportunity to feed that fascination. I mentioned in the account of water hauling some of our dam building. On one occasion we built a dam further down stream than usual, at the footbridge that crossed the run on the path to the “other” barn. That bridge was merely a board across the run. Sometimes additional support was required, especially if the board was cracked and weather-beaten. Frequently this was done by placing two poles parallel to the board and then running three or four transverse sticks across beneath the board. Everything rested on the damp clay of the run bank, so the bridge rotted out every few years.

This dam I am describing was built just below the bridge, at a time when the bridge was in less than new condition. I think that there were only two sticks across, and the board had a crack in it. But since I crossed the bridge at least twice every day, I wasn’t concerned about its permanence. The water was rising slowly behind the dam, and I was sitting on the bridge watching as it crept slowly higher and higher. I would pick out a pebble or a leaf and watch as the water slowly enveloped it. After maybe a half-hour of this kind of placid amusement, I must have gotten a little restless. I can’t remember what the motivation was, but I began to bounce on the board to watch how far it would bend. Suddenly the point of material failure was reached and I found myself sitting in the run with water up to my waist. I can still see the water momentarily walled up nearly vertical like the Red Sea as I went into it bottom first. There was only one pair of overalls for each week, so the only thing to do was find a sunny spot and dry out. Then I had to go home and tell my stepfather that the bridge had broken down. He of course suspected that it hadn’t fallen apart by itself, but because it wasn’t very sturdy in the first place, I didn’t get a swipe with the razor strap that time.

Periodically the run would flood, and I would have even more excitement. When there was an especially hard rain, we kids would stand at the north windows and watch the run with excitement. Soon the water would become visible near the banks, colored clay yellow from the run-off from the fields, and begin to spread across the flat toward the hill on which the house stood. If the storm had been hard enough, an area of about forty yards wide would be covered. It was not very deep, but I found out that fast moving water didn’t slow up for small boys, or middle sized ones either.

Ever since I can remember, I wanted a boat. There wasn’t any water close enough to float one, of course, but I still wanted to be Captain of a craft no matter how humble. Finally, an opportunity came.

We sometimes let neighbors dig coal in our mine. The charge was one cent a bushel, if they did the work. Or if they had no money, as was frequently the case, they’d dig one load for themselves and one for us. One of them had made a cumbersome wheelbarrow for hauling coal out of the mine. It was almost impossible to use, bent over the way one had to work in the mine, and it was soon abandoned. The wheel and handles were put to some other use, but the box was left on the slate pile at the mouth of the mine. Now a wheelbarrow box lacks several key characteristics of a watercraft. Putting it technically, watertight integrity is seriously compromised, the weight-to-displacement ratio is too close to one, the placement of ballast is extremely critical, and there is absolutely no self-righting moment. Also, it has no directional stability. It can go sideways or backwards as well as forward. The only one of these problems that I recognized was the lack of watertight integrity. In other words, the thing leaked through a dozen holes. I was able to partially remedy that problem. There were some scraps of roofing paper left over from repair work on one of the buildings, and two or three cans of pine tar. The roofing paper didn’t form around the chines or stem and transom very well, but liberal applications of tar at least slowed the leakage considerably.

Fortunately, the slate pile was quite close to the water, making it possible with much tugging and prying to get it into the dam. I found out quickly that one had to sit exactly in the middle and move only a little. The utility of a dock was very apparent, but that just wasn’t available. Playing around in still water gave me some appreciation for my barrowboat’s characteristics, and I was ready when the next big rain came. The floodwaters usually drained away about as fast as they rose, which meant that there was no time to lose. I got out of the house as soon after the rain stopped as I thought would be permissible without being ordered to forget the whole project, and headed for the run. Water was bankfull and fast. I got the boat into the water at the footbridge and managed to get in. There was only on way to go—downstream. Not straight, of course, but round and round in circles. Within fifty yards of the bridge I was washed into the bank and upset. Enough water had leaked in that the boat had to be emptied anyway, so what was a few more buckets. Somehow I got started again and got under the neighbors’ barbwire fence with only minor scratches. I’ve lost count of the number of spills, but somehow I managed to go about a half mile before the run had dropped below floodstage to the point where the cargo capacity of the boat was reduced below my weight. By this time I had learned enough about the boat’s limitations that I wasn’t too disappointed in abandoning ship. You see, there was no way I could drag that box back up through the woods, through the brush, and over the rocks to the coal mine. There wasn’t even a road or trail to bring the horse down for it. There it stayed until the next flood took it off without a passenger. At least I could dream about a boat now that had the necessary characteristics to be worthy of the name. All that was left was to wait before going home until my clothes were somewhat less than saturated.

February 12, 1989