Legacy

Story by David Eaton [Illustration Joseph Buchanan]

“Hey buddy, you want to come up and try steering for a little bit?” I call to my son who is in the cabin busily playing with toys I packed for this afternoon’s sail.

He pauses and hardly glances at me. “No, not really.” He resumes his game of racing matchbox cars across the slightly inclined floorboards while I suppress a wince.

Today is a day for brooding; grey pensive clouds engulf the bay. A cold front passed in the night, and while the rain is gone, a delicate fog remains. Water particles float on the gentle breeze, accumulating in tiny droplets. I blink and feel them freed from my eyelashes. Even the incessant squawks of scavenging seagulls are absent. The bow of our little boat cuts through the small waves created by last night’s storm. A wake of calmed water, marking the boat’s passage, trails no more than a few meters before it is erased by the disturbed sea. My thoughts are on life, in particular my life and its brevity. How similar it is to the passage of this boat—pushed onward, propelled toward some destination, the evidence of our labors leaving an impermanent mark behind.

I look at my son and offer again, “Really? It’s pretty fun.”

He hesitates, “Okay…sure,” and leaves his cars to scurry along the rocking floor as he pads up the companionway steps.

My father never showed much interest in me, and so I am determined to have a significant role in my son’s life.