[5: write about a memory of riding in a boat.]

I grew up in the mountains, along rivers where a kayak might have trouble
passing in places. Boats aren't exactly part of my world on a regular basis.

That said, I have a boat-builder for a great uncle, a deep love for ferry
boats, and a friend whose father is the only transportation on and off of a
tiny island unless you own your own boat, or an airplane capable of landing
in the bumpy, sloped field that passes for an airport on the island.

Something always appeals to me about places where boats are common. I love
the ferries, painted in marine white and marine green paint, the thick
gloppy look of paint that has to withstand salt brine for years before being
replaced; I love the heavy, industrial function of bridges and docks, the
from the International Orange of the Golden Gate bridge to the green and
steel of the bridges crossing the Willamette in Portland.

I still remember the smack, smack, smack of Dave's 15 foot aluminum skiff,
the little wheelhouse sheilding him and a half dozen family's groceries from
the worst of the spray, leaving the passengers in the front of the boat,
getting splashed with every wave until we pull in slowly into the middle of
nowhere, at least to me, so that he can pull up a trap full of prawns for
dinner.