On the Hard

Seven days on the hard so far, hauled out of water and propped up on sticks. Well, strong metal supports that look like sticks compared to 10-ton Habibi. Is she really going to remain upright on land? The Bod is extremely wary, tiptoeing around deck, and the Mind is surprised every single day that passes without crashing. “Low center of gravity,” explained another sailor, and theoretically, I believe it. Viscerally, no.

Four-legged Emmett always avoided metal grates and covers when we ambled city sidewalks, looking at me askance when I trundled over them trustingly. “Really want to do that, do you?” his gaze said. And yet I haven’t fallen through, despite the warnings of Chaplin, Keaton, and Lucille Ball.

Walking back from my morning swim today, I spy a silver mountain bike that reminds me of Steed, my NOLA and Florida conveyance of many moons ago. This one is also upright, kickstanded on the hard sand. I’d been looking for non-fossil-fuel transportation to ferry me to the sere hills in the north, away from town, so I stop and ogle. I see no humans it might belong to, and I’m tempted to hop on and ride away. After all, someone took my belongings earlier this month, fair is fair. Except it isn’t. I’m simply cranky from the heat and the asinine flirters and chatters in the boatyard.

A man eventually splashes through the tide pools near me. “¿Que pasa?” he replies to my greeting, so I ask about the bike. He claims ownership. “Is it for sale?” I say in Spanish, and again he nods. I ride it around the beach — no brakes, but the wheels turn, the tires are inflated, the rust isn’t too bad — and we have a deal. I ride back to Habibi, The Bod protesting the exertion. Been awhile.

An aunt once told me I looked like my grandmother when I ride. I guess we both had the same joie de vivre. I learned when I was a kid, and that first moment — when you step on a pedal and push off, and suddenly you’re balanced and free and outta Dodge — that moment is as exhilarating today as it was the first time I didn’t fall down.

Yes, it’s a hard-knock life. But there are days when gravity doesn’t slam you to your knees. When you fly and float and sail in Goodness and Glad Tidings. When Peace descends and kisses your brow, and says Onward, Beloved.