Vessel

A personal essay by Emery Warr

We build vessels to protect ourselves. But time turns ships into shells and shields into masks that only serve to distort our own reflections.

Last week, in the early evening, I invited several friends to join me as I made my way to the fluttering banks of the Provo River. We built a ship out of aluminum foil, folded silver sheets and crumpled them together to create sails, masts, bow, stern, deck, and hull. Some pieces tore in the process, but we crinkled them so no one could tell, and really, no one could. Then we sent our ship down the river.

When I was young, before I wrapped myself in a shiny coat that reflected expectations, Mother and I would sing by the ocean. We sang about barges and pirates, harmonizing with the churning of the waves as they thundered beneath, between, within us. I let my melodies go without fear, all power and peace.

The current carried our ship downstream, over the rocks laid out beneath the rippling surface. The vessel got snagged on a tree branch that was reaching down into the water. We cheered for our ship to push forward, to free itself and sail on, and it did, but it lost a sail, pulled away by the thin fingers of an aspen.

I went fishing in the ocean once with Father. The water cradled our boat like an infant being rocked to sleep, and it wasn't long before our anticipation dwindled and our grips on our poles loosened. And then Father’s line went taut. He called me over to reel in the catch, but I hesitated. It was his line, his triumph, and if I pulled in that fish I knew everyone would act like the victory was mine. I wanted to tell him no. But my mouth stayed shut, and my hands gripped the handle, and I fought against something that I couldn’t see. I felt the strength of its body at the end of Father's line, pure muscle twitching and thrashing in a mortal panic. A great silver fish burst out of the water. Our guide hoisted it onto the deck, and it was all spasms, until he bludgeoned it to death with a rubber mallet.

Our ship continued on. Further downstream, it got wedged between two stones, the foil of its body warping, another shimmering piece of its hull tearing away. We begged for the ship to endure, and it did, however unsteadily.

Grandpa built a rowboat and painted it blue. He built it years ago, when his children were young. But when they were grown and I was a ten-year-old child, we still drove it to the lake--a chipping blue rowboat in the back of a chipping blue pickup truck. My cousins were eager to arrive, stripping down to their swimsuits and running into the cool water. I sat on the shore in a folding chair, reading a book and sucking on grapes. When I dug my toes into the sand-mixed-with-dirt, they came out coated in warm brown dust. My cousins motioned for me to join them, but I hesitated. I was so comfortable in my tee-shirt and jeans, content and safe and hidden. I wanted to tell them no. But my mouth showed them a smile, and my hands pulled off my layers, and I went in the water. We laughed and splashed, but I never sat in the rowboat. I was careful to keep my body under the surface until it was time to leave. I walked out, dripping wet, and covered myself again, this time with a striped towel.

The ship's integrity was waning. It would advance downstream for a time, but each brief interval of progress was interrupted by some form of obstacle, tearing off or contorting yet another piece of shimmering foil. The first few challenges appeared to be of little consequence, but with each sudden drop and snag and collision, our trembling ship lost more and more of itself.

Father took me on a cruise and tried to tell me that God isn’t real. The conversation began innocent enough, when he asked me which colleges I wanted to apply to. I was picking at a plate of french-fries, and he started picking at God. I tried to stop him, tried to interrupt, but the words kept pouring out of his mouth and into mine, so all I could do was gurgle and choke. He told me to do my research. He told me my values were based on deception. No matter how much I struggled, all I could do was stare at my hands that teared at my fries and wait for it to be over. But he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop and again--as always--I couldn't speak up. I shook my head and pushed away from the table while the water filled my mouth and ears and eyes.

In the end we knew what would happen. We stood on the banks, unfazed as the river took up occupancy in what was left of our ship's hull. 

Father took me on a cruise and tried to tell me that God isn’t real.