The Old Man and the Boat

There's this house I drive by often, a little place in South Fort Myers, and in its driveway there's a boat. The boat is for sale. It has been for sale for a long, long time.

Turns out I've been looking for a boat lately. But then, my definition of "lately" is broader that most. Because I've been looking for a boat for, oh, about the last dozen years. Even when I've owned perfectly good boats, of which there have been several, I would tell people: "Yeah, I've been looking for a boat lately." There are worse things to waste your time looking for.

This particular boat for sale in the driveway of the house I drive by often is not exactly the kind of boat I've been looking for lately. But just the other day, I stopped by to check it out anyway. Because, like Everest, it was there.

The fellow who owned it was out of his house before I was out of my car, making good time in my direction even with his cane. He was every bit of 80, and he wore a straw hat, the kind with a window of green, see-through plastic in the front bill, like you can buy in better bait shops everywhere along the Gulfshore. The rest of him was decked out for fishing, too, although it was obvious he was not capable of getting out on the water anymore.

"Interested in the boat?" he said

"Been looking for a boat," I said.

"You fish?"

I nodded.

"You fish for bass?"

"Every now and then," I said.

"Let me tell you about bass," he said. "This one time, me and my boy, Thomas, the younger one-I got three sons, none of them live around here anymore-we were out on Lake Trafford fishing for bass."

The story went on for a good 10 minutes about how he and Thomas got into those Lake Trafford bass one day. I listened politely while I continued to size up the boat. The motor didn't look all that bad. No dings in the prop.

"What about redfish?" he said.

"Yeah, I like fishing for them."

"Let me tell you about redfish," he said. "This one time, me and a neighbor, we went up to Matlacha..."

And he was off and running again.

It really wasn't the kind of boat I was looking for. But I kept on looking anyway. Because if you are possessed with chronic boat lust, this is what you do.

The old man stopped for a breath in his redfish story. I cut in.

"So how much are you asking?°± I said.

"For what?"

"For the boat."

He seemed to suddenly remember why I had stopped at his house, why we were standing there.

"Oh... 15," he said.

"Fifteen hundred?"

He shook his head, grinned.

"Thousand."

Then he grinned some more. I did, too. Indeed, it was everything I could do to keep from laughing. The boat in the driveway was worth $2,000, maybe $3,000 tops. It hadn't been worth $15,000 when it was new.

"I ought to tell you that this boat has just been sitting here," he said. "Motor hasn't been cranked in two years."

"Sounds like you're talking it down."

"No, sir," he said. "That price is firm."

And I believed him. Believed, too, that if I offered him $15,000 he'd raise his price to $20,000 in a heartbeat. He didn't want to get rid of that boat any more than he wanted to get rid of his memories. He couldn't get out on the water anymore, but he still went fishing went fishing for those of us who would see the 'Boat for Sale' sign and stop so he could talk.

"I went snook fishing a little while back," I said.

"Let me tell you about snook," he said. "This one time, me and my older son, Ben, we were on the backside of Estero Bay..."

Bob Morris' Bahamarama is a finalist for the 2005 Edgar Allan Poe Award for best mystery novel.