THE BOAT

Being a child in the 1930's was a mostly happy time for me. True, the Great Depression had caused mass unemployment throughout Britain. However, my father was employed as a tailor's cutter by a manufacturer of prestigious men's raincoats and topcoats. Although he was among the fortunate who still had a job, his wages were held down due to the masses of men who waited for the chance to work. We were quite poor, but I didn't know it.

Dad and I were very close, and we spent as much time together as he could squeeze out of his schedule. He continued to instruct me in the finer points of cricket, and spent many hours honing my soccer skills. I also learned from him whatever tolerance and compassion I now have.

The company for which Dad worked was expanding, so they moved to a larger building in another part of London. Dad when with them, and we moved closer to his job.

I had to start attending a different school and, at age seven, this was a daunting experience. I had to make new friends, which took a little time; but the worst part of any new school was being called upon to fight several of the boys in order to establish my position in the "pecking order." I did not fare well.

One of the nicest things about our new home was a nearby park. Mum and Dad often took my brother and me there, especially to a shallow round pond, some 100 feet across, made expressly for sailing model boats. I would watch, fascinated by the various types and sizes of the power boats, many of them built by their proud, grownup owners.
But it was the sailboats that received most of my attention, from the small sloops to home-built schooners with masts reaching almost three feet above their decks. My imagination ran unchecked as I stood and watched the owners setting the sails to propel their ships across the small ocean, until I was reluctantly dragged away to continue our walk.

"Look what came for you," Mum smiled as, a couple of weeks after my introduction to the boating pond, I entered our house after a day at school. She handed me a fairly large box, which had been delivered with that day's mail. Immediately I started to open it.

"Perhaps you'd want to wait for Dad to get home before you do that, "Mum suggested. I knew she was right, and reluctantly put down the package, looking at the clock and hoping it was time for Dad to walk in the door.

Some two hours later I heard Dad's key in the front door lock and I ran to meet him, clutching the box to my chest.

"Can I open it now Dad?" I pleaded. Dad smiled, "Yes, you can open it now."

With fumbling fingers and Dad's help I tore the box open, revealing the most beautiful model sailboat I had ever seen. Looking back I now realize that my parents must have made quite a few sacrifices to enable them to vive me such a wonderful gift.

My father stepped the mast, connected the boom, and fitted the sails. "What a beauty she is." I was enraptured. "Thanks, Mum and Dad," and I hugged and kissed them each in turn as I gazed at my green-hulled craft with its snow-white sails.

"When can we try it, Dad?" I felt I couldn't wait another minute. Dad laughed aloud at my excitement. "We'll go to the park on Saturday," he promised.

And on that Saturday, and many more Saturdays, we sailed my pride and joy. Dad taught me to set the sails to drive the boat across the pond, and I would run to the other side to await its arrival. But, once in a while, the breeze would drop, or change direction, and my sloop would become becalmed in the middle of the pond, together with many other sailboats.

"I'll get them," Dad would laugh, and, stripping off his shoes and socks and rolling up his trouser legs, he would step into the sixteen-inch-deep water, returning to shore dragging the limp-sailed boats behind him, like Lemuel Gulliver towing the diminutive fleet of Blefescu back to Lilliput.

Under Dad's tutelage I seen became adept at sailing my craft, and together we spent many happy hours until the second relocation we were to make because of Dad's job. I never saw such a fine model boating pond again.

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