Ahh, the rowboat. Nothing tastier than apples and ginger ale and sandwiches consisting solely of turkey, lettuce, tomato, and “Fred Bread” while you’re drifting in a rowboat in the middle of Minister’s Pond with your twin sister, both of you wearing hideously orange life jackets.
There’s something so mysterious about the other side of the pond—sometimes we hear faint music on the wind while we drift in the reeds and weeds of “the other side.” Whose flagpole is that? Who lives in that little house? What’s up with all the buoys on the side of that shed?
And then, of course, the allure of mystery extends to “Uvver Pond”, the other side of Minister’s Pond sometimes separated by plant life during a drought. We treat it as a separate entity from “our” pond: unfamiliar fishermen (almost exclusively men), other people’s lost bobbers and tangled-up fishing line, strange boats and remote-controlled flying toys soaring in the breeze, obeying the touch of some stranger’s hand. The log on the somewhat steep bank of sand (which was probably dumped there by some sand company because it’s just a freshwater kettle pond) where we can pull the rowboat up is not ours, and was from some unknown tree long ago. We don’t know how deep this side is.
The rowboat is metal and often has durgey water in it. (I have a feeling that “durgey” is not a word at all, but it seems onomatopoetically appropriate.) Sometimes it creaks a little, and the oarlocks are often sticky and groan with each stroke, but rowing is pleasant work. Sometimes we wave to our parents or sister standing on the shore or the ever-present float. But mostly we stare at the sky, which can be anywhere from bright, bright blue when the sun is out to a dull, cold gray. No, sorry, those last three words must be someone else’s words; they are so unoriginal and boring. The clouds are a long, flat stratus expanse—well, not flat, exactly: they sort of roll a little. These sometimes-grim beings make it clear that not having rain is completely out of the question. But I love Cape Cod rain, just not when we’re out in a lightning-conducting hunk of metal.