I don't own a boat, but somehow, I ended up at a boat repair shop at ten o'clock this morning with a friend who does. His boat needs a repair before it can get back out on the water this summer, and I happen to know the one shop that can fix it. I offered to go with him, make the drive, and help get the boat to the right spot. I'm not too familiar with how it all works, but it got me out of the house on a Saturday morning.
There are a few places you could take a boat to get fixed around here, but if you ask anyone who's lived here long enough, they'd tell you that there's only one spot. It's at the end of a long and quiet road, tucked away behind the trees. If you drove past it and you weren't looking for it, you'd miss it every time.
The shop is owned by a man in his sixties, who has been a marine mechanic for over twenty-five years. You wouldn't think he's been perfecting his craft for that long just by looking at him, but you can tell that he loves what he does.
I first met him a few summers ago down by the lake, and I've seen him every summer since. He's not one for conversation unless you catch him on a good day, but whether he knows you or not, you can always count on him to say hello. He's one of those people that everyone knows, but even if you aren't familiar with him, something about him always feels familiar anyway.
He should be retired for the amount of work he's done over the years, but these days, he still spends most of his time with boats instead of people, and that's how he prefers it. I wouldn't say he avoids them because they're a part of his job, and fixing things on their behalf is what he does, but people aren't really like boats; they have a lot more parts and components. Not that boats are much easier or people are less complicated, but it's clear which one he's more comfortable with. As a result, he spends most of his time in his shop at the end of the southern side road, surrounded by the trees, and waits for people like us to show up with problems that need fixing.
Today, it's an engine issue that I could go into the details of, but that's his job for the morning. He didn't waste much time before he got right after it, and within the hour, he landed on the problem and the solution. He said he could get it fixed in a few hours, so we stuck around and went back then.
When we got back, everything went pretty smoothly. The problem was solved, the engine was running again, and we were all set to head out. But before we left, we all ended up talking a little more, of course about boats, but also about lakes, and most importantly, people. My friend started talking to him about boats and mentioned why it was so important that he get his up and running this summer. For context, he's getting married soon, and wanted it to be ready so that he was able to enjoy it with his soon-to-be wife and family.
I watched the two of them talk for a second and realized how ironic that moment was, considering my friend was one for conversation, but over the years I've learned the shop owner isn't. But what I've also learned is that there's a few topics that really get him talking. One is boats, the other is water, but the other two are family, and oddly enough, love.
He had been married before, but got divorced over a decade ago. He has two kids who live in the next town over, who are now raising families of their own, and he's proud of each of them. But if you ask him about marriage, he'd tell you that it didn't exactly work out the same way for him. Despite that, he's never spoken poorly about it, and he isn't bitter about it either. He believes his marriage had its time and that they loved each other well. They created beautiful moments together, built something special, and have a beautiful family to show for it, but somewhere along the way, things started to change. There are a lot of ways to sum it up, none of which are mine to tell, but if you asked him, he'd tell you one got away, and one couldn't stay.
But what does he mean by that? Well, if you ask him about love, he'd start talking about his previous wife. He'd tell you how she loved him and how she was a good woman in every way, but in the end, she just couldn't stay, and he's made his peace with that. But if you kept him talking, he'd start telling you about the woman he met back in the '80s. She wasn't his second love, or even his third, but she was his first, and in more ways than one, she's stayed exactly that.
They were teenagers when they met. She lived a few streets over, they had a bunch of mutual friends, and they did everything together. They went to every dance, every party, and every spot in town. They didn't go to the same school, but every day on her way home from school, she rode her bike past his house, and he made sure he got home fast enough to see her. It's safe to say that he liked her, and she liked bikes, but the only thing she liked more than bikes was boats, and the only thing he liked more than her was, well, nothing.
He had spent a lot of time on the water, especially during his childhood. He had gone fishing with his father for years, and they took their old fishing boat out onto the water as much as they were able to. But after they met, that boat became a lot more significant, and from there, that's how he got into the boating business.
For three years, they were inseparable. To this day, he'd still tell you that he was sure he was going to marry her, and that the rest of his life was in front of him. But one day, they got into a disagreement that he's never really gotten into the details of, but from the way he talks about it, you can tell that it was significant enough to cause a big fallout. After that, they saw a lot less of each other until one day, they stopped seeing each other altogether. She got a job in the next city over, and he kept working locally.
You can tell it took a toll on him, and I'm sure it took a toll on her, too. He'd tell you himself that he thought about her every day, and although I've never heard him say it, you can tell that he believed he could have fixed things if they had more time.
But one winter passed, then spring, and as summer came around, her dad was looking for employment in the oilfields a few provinces over, and her family ended up moving out west. That was the last he had heard from her, and I guess of her too. He was never really sure what happened to her after that. He always assumed she stayed out west and built a life there while he built a life here. But I guess that's the thing about a love like that: it ends up in places you sometimes cannot find, but somehow it still finds you. It can go anywhere, but it doesn't really go anywhere at the same time. It stays wherever you want it to, and for him, it stayed with her, and that's where it's been for the past 40 years.
To him, it's a story that's difficult to tell more than once. That day, it was the kind of conversation no one ever really wants to have, and today, as you read this, it probably sounds poetic, but it's not the kind of poetry you ever want to write.
I've learned that most of us eventually become very good at the things we've failed at before. At first, those things feel like weights we carry, but over time, they transform into crafts we perfect. For him, that was fixing and repairing boats. It was a way to cope with what he couldn't fix before. The business started with love, and I guess you could say it'll end with love, too. But I find it interesting how he built a life out of a love he lost and the desire he had to fix it. He became known for the very thing he probably wanted to forget some days. But I suppose, in the end, you fix what you can while you figure out what to do with the things you can't.
For some people, love like that lingers in the small things. It shows up in a song you play every so often, because it would be too much to listen to all the time. For others, it's in the way the sky looks at a certain hour, or in those moments only you can truly understand. But for him, that love is everywhere, every single day. It moves with the water that flows in front of his shop, and it rustles through the trees that surround it. It's a constant reminder of the life he thought he'd have, and the one that slipped away long before it should've.
It's in the way he could retire tomorrow, if he wanted to, but I imagine he won't. To him, retirement would feel like another loss. He'd have to give up his ability to keep fixing, and I don't think he could bring himself to do that. So instead, he spends his days in his shop, rebuilding boats, with the quiet hope that each restoration is a small act of redemption for a life that could've been. It's his way of finding reassurance in what's been lost, and a way to make up for the one thing he couldn't fix when it mattered most.
Is it admirable to keep trying? Maybe. But he'd tell you to never envy his life's path or the way he still yearns for it to be different. Instead, he'd tell you to hold on to what you have, if you're lucky enough to find it, and to be diligent enough not to lose it when it comes. If you do, you might end up spending the rest of your days fixing what she once loved, and hoping it means something to the love that still lingers.
