boat - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Upon the sand is a boat, so still upon golden waves. She is every colour Leon loves so much, every hue of pastel that brings the seafront to mind. Her paint is flaked, showing the colours of yesteryear, revealing them so that they may dance in the sunlight once more. He lets his fingers mover over her surface, taking in each imperfection, all of which add to her beauty.
My boat is called "Oasis," for that is what she is. Though this salt water breathes life for my brothers below; I cannot drink a drop. And so, upon the seas she keeps me alive, breathing air, seeing sun. I feel her rock beneath bare feet, her keel upon the boundary of our world and theirs. For now, there is nought to do but await the horizon, take note of the terrain that comes, chart a new course if need be.
This boat that is my land amid the water, is as bright as the last berry of summer. In this brine that is the playground of dolphins and the sanctuary of whales, I am rocked as a baby in loving arms. I feel wind, gusting with the tempo of a fiddle, dancing with long and short bows, punctuated by soulful silence. I watch the billowed sail, rippling the same as water around, always ready to propel us onward. Under this rising sun I have watched the mast shadow grow and fade, yet it is a pale form of darkness and nothing at all to compare to brilliance of stars in the night. And as we bob here, the boat and me, I remember what Grandpa would say, "There may be shadows in the sunlight, my love, but there will always be stars at night."
The boat was an old timer, a veteran of the brine. The old planks retained the odour of the fish even after a storm. Yet she was sound, seaworthy enough to take to the waters at dawn with nets bundled onto the deck.
The boat was straight out of a child's picture book. It was part of a small fishing fleet that launched from the pebble beach, painted in stripes of blue, red and white. A mast poked into the misty morning sky as the sail hung loose to the deck.
All that was visible of the boat was the blue rim a few inches above the water line. No-one could be seen inside but from the up-ended oars Getty assumed there was someone sleeping inside, keeping the boat weighed down instead of bobbing on the waves.
Upon the sand was a boat no bigger than one of the rowers there used to be on the lake, the oars placed inside like chopsticks after dinner. Behind it was the drag marks, half erased by the waves. Against the pale yellow of the grains the wood was dark, varnished to a deep mahogany.
Then as if my divine command a boat appeared on the horizon, glistening in the sunrise. They watched it make a steady approach, the outline of the yacht becoming more clear every moment.
The boat was from the war but converted as a day cruiser. The tourists would pile on in wild floral prints, cameras at the ready, shoes loud on the tinny deck. The engine would roar to life with Ted at the helm and it would chug out into the harbour.
On board the Sea Nymph was a small boat known as the Tub. Very short and broad, it rowed like a washtub, and in a storm, would have been about as safe as a laundry basket. But water held no terrors for Johnny, so, late the following afternoon, he pushed the Tub into the sea and headed for shore.
It was indeed a strangely equipped craft. A three-master, with an auxiliary motor for bad weather, the Sea Nymph had been built for island trade. Since the bottom had dropped out of the sugar market, she
had been lying idle in the harbor. Without making many changes, the elderly professor had equipped her for his purpose, whatever that might be. Johnny had not yet been told. There had been a hold at the boat's center, for sugar and other freight. This had been transformed into a tank--or swimming pool. Johnny could not tell which. Doris, garbed in a gay swim suit, had taken a morning plunge there, but he had a notion it was for some other purpose, also.