Summary | Excerpt | Reviews | Beyond the Book | Readalikes | Genres & Themes | Author Bio
Alone in a Fisherman's Skiff
by Rosemary Mahoney
These days I live at the edge of Narragansett Bay. I row here
too - up the Seekonk River one day, down to Occupessatuxet
Point the next. Often I row my boat into the middle of the bay,
ship my oars, and sit back to see where the tide and the current
will take me. I do this, I know, not because it's peaceful
but because there's an edge to it - it can be peaceful, yes, but it
is never truly relaxing. I do it because there's an element of
surrender in the exercise, an active acknowledgment of how
breathtakingly tiny and helpless I am in the greater scheme of
things, a condition that I spend the rest of my day ignoring,
denying, scorning, or forgetting. It is frightening yet also liberating
to admit a force far larger than our own.
I SHOULD SAY, before you get the wrong idea, that I have no
desire to die. I do not want to die even if it be peacefully in my
sleep in my own bed. Less do I want to drown to death or burn
to death or choke to death or crash to death or have any body
part of mine maimed or disfigured or messed with in any way
(and especially not by a crocodile, more about which later). I
am, in fact, a woman who can be driven witless with discomfort
and frustration by the merest splinter, wart, cold sore,
sty, hangnail, or personal insult. I am not afraid to die; I simply
do not want to. Nevertheless, I am also a person who is
drawn to doing physically difficult and sometimes even dangerous
things. I cannot deny that I like to find myself in sticky
situations, with the feeling that I've really gone and done it
this time, that I'm finally sunk, that there's no turning back
and possibly no tomorrow. As regards my aversion to death,
I think this impulse makes sense. Death - or dread of it
really - has always seemed to me to be the subtext, if not the
downright text, of all physical adventure. It's a calling forth
of the despised thing in an effort to stare it down, a test of
how far life can push itself into death's territory without getting
burned, and ultimately an effort to become inured to the
inevitable prospect. Contrary to what we might expect, acceptance of our limitations and of all that lies beyond our
control assuages the anxieties that arise from the misplaced
responsibility we habitually and rather grandiosely depute
to ourselves.
Returning home from my first visit to Egypt, I took my boat out
on Narragansett Bay and imagined myself gliding alone down
the Nile among the flamingos, reeds, and palm trees. For months
I imagined this. On winter days, when the Rhode Island sky
was gray and cold, I pulled myself across the bay and conjured
what I had seen along the Nile. I fantasized about returning to
Egypt, finding a boat, and heading off down the river on my
own. On that first trip to Egypt, whenever I mentioned my Nile
rowing idea to Egyptian people they had all said with real disbelief,
Impossible! You are a woman! The river is big! Not mentioning
any crocodile! And dangerous ships! And the fisherman
who can become crazy seeing a woman alone! Egyptians generally
thought the plan was idiotic, pointless, and dangerous, and
seemed to find it inconceivable that anyone at all would want to
row a boat on the Nile for no pressing or practical or, above all,
lucrative reason, let alone a foreign woman, and especially
when you could make the same trip lounging on a comfortable
tour boat with your feet up and a drink in your hand. But sitting
in Narragansett Bay, I earnestly wondered why such a trip
should be impossible. The Nile was a consistent, stately river
that flowed up the continent from the south while the prevailing
winds came out of the north, a rare phenomenon that for
centuries had allowed easy passage in both directions. Why
should its location in Egypt make this river any more forbidding,
inaccessible, or unrowable than any other?
Copyright © 2007 by Rosemary Mahoney
Your guide toexceptional books
BookBrowse seeks out and recommends the best in contemporary fiction and nonfiction—books that not only engage and entertain but also deepen our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.