Rick Watson
A few weeks ago, I stopped by the forks of the river in Sipsey on the way home. Normally, there are several people there sitting in folding chairs, shooting the bull and watching time pass at the speed of a slow-moving river.
But on this day, I had the place to myself. I enjoy the company of my buddies who gather there, but it’s also nice to have the place to yourself every now and then.
Turning my truck around and backing down close to the edge, I switched the engine off and stepped out of the cab. At the back, I dropped the tailgate and used it for a bench.
The sun was warm for January, and if I’d brought a pillow, I could have taken a nap right there in the bed of my truck. I’ve been known to do that at times. It’s a trick I learned from my dad when I was a kid. He could take a nap anywhere and anytime.
Just then I heard an outboard motor off in the distance. A fisherman would be slowly making his way back to the boat launch before the sun went down. At first, the motor sounded like the drone of a bumblebee, but it got gradually louder as it puttered closer to the dock.
The boat was a flat-bottom that looked as if it had been painted with a pine top. It reminded me of the boats that most people used for running trotlines and bream fishing when I was growing up.
I remember as a child helping my granddaddy Pap build flat-bottom skiffs under a black cherry tree in the corner of our yard. Well, helping him build the boats might be a bit of bluster. I handed him a hammer, nails and a bucket of tar when he needed them. Mostly I sat on a sawhorse and watched for hours on end.
When I started to high school, I helped my dad build a small fishing cabin on the Black Warrior River. And soon after that, he bought a 14-foot V-bottom fishing boat with a Super 10 Evinrude motor.
I was driving that boat long before I was old enough to drive a car, though I started driving early, too.
There were times in the spring and early summer we’d launch the boat and be on the water before sunrise. When the warm air and cool water met, a morning mist hung over the emerald water like a thin gauze curtain.
Our fishing excursions took us miles down the river. After we got tired of fishing, we’d turn the boat around and snake back up the winding river toward home. When Dad would wave me back to take control, I knew it was his naptime. He’d lay across the middle bench seat, pull his cap down over his eyes and let the gentle ride upstream rock him to sleep.
So many of my fondest childhood memories are connected to boats and this old lazy river.
Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book, “Life Changes,” is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at rick@rickwatson-writer.com.
