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Storytime Tapestry Newsletter
The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural
awareness throughout the world.
Special Treat – Bruce
Cornely
January
10, 2008
A Patch of
Quilt
By Bruce Cornely (September 2007)
It was not a usual day. Although the Florida sky was its
usual bright blue and the puffy clouds floating peacefully above were in their
usual playful shapes. From deep in the back seat of Harlo’s Nash Rambler --
“the Nash with a backbone” as we called it -- all my brother, sister and I
could see was sky, but we knew from the various twists and turns and familiar
sounds that we were getting close to the marina where two years of work would
gently slide into the river and become a source of recreation instead of
weekend chores.
Dad had used his gentle and warm personality to wheedle a deal on an old life
boat from a decommissioned freighter that was being dismantled for scrap in the
Jacksonville ship yards.
The price of dinner and a movie for two had secured our recreational
future and Dad’s dream of building his own boat. He and his army buddy, Harlo,
patiently and carefully designed and crafted the transformation from life boat
to elegant sail boat.
There was a special romance about that boat from the noble rise of the
straight, V-shaped bow to the graceful curve of the sides which embraced the
mid-section and then connected in the squared stern. The ribs had a
cathedral-like grace in their shape and although delicate in appearance were
the strength of the hull. Bare wood was peppered with stubborn areas of paint
which refused to give in to the weather and abuse of the years of service.
The paint had proven even more stubborn as we scraped and sanded in the
succeeding weekends and occasional weeknights, preparing the hull for fresh
coats of paint. Decking was a first for this boat which had been an open life
boat throughout its service on the freighter. It was fun to imagine the various
parts of the world that this relatively small craft had seen, and even floated
in, carrying the trusting seamen on survival drills. As the old saying goes, “if
walls could talk.”
Sloop rigging had been the design choice and allowed for a small cabin, open to
the relatively spacious cockpit which comfortably seated our family of five:
two brothers on one side, mom and our sister on the other, with Dad at the helm,
seated over the stern storage compartment, tiller in hand. The rigging was
conveniently arranged so that Dad could sail the boat alone, allowing us to
enjoy the adventure from the cockpit or other vantage points. My favorite was
the bow with my legs straddling the mast and my head resting on the bowsprit so
that I could watch the waves being split as the bow cut through the water.
There was excitement in the air as Harlo’s Nash rolled into the marina and he
began expertly positioning the trailer to be backed into the river. A few
people gathered around, admiring their handiwork. She really was a beautiful
boat, unlike many of the manufactured boats made of fiberglass with rounded
hulls and bows, and she lived up to her name, Scheherazade.
Scheherazade, from the Tales of the Arabian Nights, was a beautiful and clever
girl married to a sultan who, because of his first wife’s infidelity, vowed to
marry a woman each night and kill her the next morning to prevent infidelity.
Scheherazade cleverly devised a plan to tell a story each morning, but stopped
before the ending to insure the sultan’s curiosity and allow her to live for
another day due to the anticipation of another adventure.
The boat, Scheherazade, was similar to the woman, Scheherazade, in that she was
beautiful and graceful, dependable, and always left us with the anticipation of
another adventure. Weekend excursions took us from her mooring in south
Jacksonville, north on the St. John’s River to the Intercoastal Waterway and
Jacksonville Beach and, even more exciting, south, past the wide and
occasionally wild expanse of river which separated Point LaVista and the Naval
Air Station, and down river to Mandarin, Orange Park, and Palatka.
There were peaceful trips across the river to Ortega and to downtown
Jacksonville where we enjoyed watching the old railroad bridge slowly open for
us to pass, then beneath the Acosta bridge which stood next to the railroad
bridge, and finally looking up at the traffic moving above us on the Alsop
bridge. We sailed leisurely, enjoying the beautiful skyline of the city
and especially the old wharves and shipyards along the north bank along Bay Street.
Occasionally, on starlit nights we would take the evening breeze and sail
downtown, anchoring off the patio gardens of the Prudential Building and listen
to the Jacksonville Symphony pops concerts while Scheherazade gently rocked us
on the swells, often in time to the music.
There were also days when we ventured south to Point LaVista to swim with the
porpoises in the river and enjoy the high, sandy cliffs at the wooded edge of
the point. It was not unusual to have our play interrupted by a sudden storm
that turned the broad curve in the river into a black and fierce sea of
crashing waves pushed across the river by strong winds and pelting rain. It was
scary but exhilarating, and Dad was truly in his element. I could see it in his
eyes and in the way he skillfully handled the sails and tiller. He rode the
storm like a rodeo cowboy rides a bucking horse. There was no fear and I was
told only to hold on and enjoy the ride, and I did, from my favorite place on
the foredeck, hugging the bowsprit.
These great adventures overshadowed the long days of drudgery, sanding and
scraping, painting, and applying a fiberglass coating to the bottom, but the
memories remained as part of the fabric which, like a quilt, told the story of
Scheherazade. There were also funny little patches like the time we taken a
break from working on the boat and sat at Harlo’s picnic table eating lunch.
Mom had prepared potato salad, baked beans, and fruit salad, and Harlo and Dad
had grilled hotdogs and hamburgers. When the three of us kids were through
eating it was time to play in the paths Harlo made for us in the tall grass
(actually, I think he did this so that he wouldn’t have to mow the entire back
yard). Together we left the table with Mom, Dad and Harlo seated on one side of
the table. The table had attached benches and the weight of the adults caused
the table to flip over, leaving the surprised adults beneath the remaining
baked beans, potato and fruit salad. We turned as Harlo, who had a slight
speech impediment, loudly exclaimed, “Dod dammit!” This became our family
expletive for many years.
I was fortunate to enjoy several years of recreation with Dad and Scheherazade
after my brother, sister and mother moved from Jacksonville. Dad and I would
take our usual trips to downtown, Ortega, Point LaVista or Mandarin. I learned
to sail, but still preferred to hold on to the bowsprit and watch the boat cut
through the dark water. Only once did I share my spot on the bow, and that was
with the love of my life, Meghann, my beagle. She enjoyed the fresh air and
occasional spray as much as a car window, I think.
These are treasured memories that I still enjoy on quiet afternoons, snuggled
in the quilt of my musings. Scheherazade is gone. Meghann is gone. For our
purposes, Point LaVista is also gone, now covered with elegant homes. The
old wharves of downtown Jacksonville are gone and the waterfront has grown,
devouring the river’s edge, greedily turning water into real estate. The
Prudential Building has been sold and renamed. The old railroad bridge and the
Alsop bridge are still there, but the Acosta bridge has been replaced with a
new sleek concrete structure. Man and nature cause changes which are good, not
so good, and even bad. But memories, like a beloved quilt, a painting, or a
piece of music (like Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade“) become more precious and
beautiful, and loved, with age and repeated enjoyment.
~ end ~
Bruce Cornely
Scritchies and Haruffaroo-bahawow...
Bruce and the Baskerbeagles at HowlingAcres
http://baskerbeagles.com
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