“I can see it like yesterday—the boats piled high with fresh vegetables, baskets, tubs of crabs, and cages of chickens—even live fish in the fish wells. A teenage boy or young man handling the tiller and sail—sailing in on a rising tide—with the old women sitting under their parasols—dressed to kill and looking like the Queen of Sheba done come to Jerusalem. It used to be a colorful sight.”

I had an image then of Cyriah landing at River Street back in the years gone by. What I would give to have seen that.

“So what’s the plan here, Bob? Is this for a museum or something?” I asked.

Bob stared at me a moment. “It’s a little something to leave behind—for when I’m gone,” he said in a gentle tone of voice. “So it won’t be completely lost. I’d like to think that one of these old boats survive and maybe someone will get to enjoy it.”

Bob and I had talked about this subject before—not the boat—but the realization of his mortality. Bob felt he had only a little time remaining, and he still had things to accomplish. And though I would never say it aloud—I had to agree with him. His body was beginning to fail more rapidly now. He had been hospitalized several times in the last year, and finally, after the last occasion, he had said, “No more. That’s enough.”

Bob told me he was tired of the indignity of it all, and that when it was time to go, it would be here, at his home—and the doctors be damned.

I had no reply, all I could do was nod my head and clear my throat, “Ah-hmmm.”

We were silent a few moments, and then Bob leaned over the side of the boat and ran a hand across the smooth cypress bottom. “So what do you think? This look like the right spot for the mast step?” He indicated a point on the floor just in front of one of the seats.

“What kind of sail rig you going to use?” I asked, grateful to change the subject.

“Sort of a modified sliding gunter. That way I can use a short, unstayed mast—one that’s easy to get up and down and handle by one person. If there’s no wind, the rig stays rolled up and you use the oars. I thought about hanging a small outboard on the transom but came to the conclusion that it would be damn near sacrilegious.”

“That being the case,” I replied, “the center of effort is pretty much over the center of the boat. I’d think the mast has to go farther forward.” I indicated a spot. “Say, about here.”