| My sister and I grew up near the Little Heron State Park in Markle. Our father ran a fishing operation in the summer for tourists. He also took people out on his boat for evening pleasure cruises. The first time I remember the boat engine breaking down was in the center of Lake Huntington on a really hot day. My father yanked on the motor’s pull-start cord amidst the nervous mumblings of a few tourists. My father did not joke about it or ease their worries at all. He got serious. He turned red and sweated through his thin cotton snap-up shirt. His comb-over fell out from under his baseball cap. His Air Force sunglasses slipped down on his nose, and cigarettes fell from his shirt pocket. It embarrassed him, and embarrassment was one thing he could never stomach. Watching him struggle, with no other recourse but to paddle back to the shore, I laughed. I laughed as quietly as I could—a peep of a chuckle—but he heard me, gritted his teeth, and drew an angry hand into the sun. But he immediately composed himself and stopped short of hitting me. The tourists on the boat had strong looks on their faces: indignant looks. Accusatory looks. One woman gasped as though she was going to lose her bed & breakfast omelet over the side of the boat. That was the last boat trip for me and my sister. We were both off my dad’s crew for a few wonderful weeks. |