Afloat

I just came across this bit of writing from one of my first nights on the houseboat in the beginning of May 2005. It struck me; I wanted to share it.

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Julio is tapping at the window. He's grinning, dark eyes shining. As I slide open the glass, he holds out an enormous bouquet of white flowers in his fist. Hands it to me like a little kid. White roses, carnations, magnolias. "Welcome aboard," he says in his thick South American accent. His voice sounds like warm pavement, like tomatoes growing in the dirt.

Nevadelia stands on her hind legs watching the runoff from Julio's house. His wife is washing dishes and the cat likes to watch the cascade of water fall into the basin between the houseboats.

The boat rocks gently side to side now. It's like a cradle, it feels like I'm finally home. Last night in the shower the water pooled at one side and I had to tilt my hips one way to stay centered. It's a lolling, soothing roll.

Shelly's house is alive. She seems young but her roots are gray. She wears bright citrus colors, lime and tangerine and papaya and passionfruit. She tells us the door is always open.

Julio is hanging a string of patio lights that he made -- from a few feet away it looks like a string of tiny brightly-colored birds, each one totally different. I move closer to see the details as he plugs it in and it lights up all different shades. He smiles broadly, "How do you say... recycling!" The tiny birds are made from strips of cans, bags, wrappers, bottles -- twists and triangles and strips looped together. Critters on a string. He is proud. Shelly commends him, like he's a third grader bringing home a school project. "That was a nice project idea you had, honey. It looks wonderful."

But Julio is already on to something else, sitting awkwardly (yet perfectly balanced) in the rowboat that is half-filled with water. He's trying to untie it from the dock, but he's sitting in it and can't reach over the side. There is all kinds of stray items in the boat, cast offs -- I thought earlier how it was an eyesore and that it should be removed, but here he was untangling it and rowing over behind our boat. I ask him if he needs help.

"You can use this whenever you like," he says. "It's a group boat." He's unraveled from the lines now, pushing off the dock into the water, skirting our boat. "I lost the windmill," he tells me with a smile. I picture it in my head. Windsock. He means windsock. The seven foot long yellow seahorse has blown off the bamboo pole on the second floor balcony and it floats halfway across the marina. He rows out and fishes it from the water with one oar.

Now it's dark and Delia is done watching the water pour from the faucet. She's curled up on my left leg, pushing her chew button into the side of the monitor. She hits me with her paw when I stop petting her. The smoky green tea incense floats in on the freshwater breeze. It smells very clean and airy here.

I am at peace. I'd forgotten what that feels like.