The Ghost Of Samuel Gray

I closed my eyes and slowly inhaled the musty smell of the old boat house. It had been many years since I had come here. I was searching now. For what, I wasn’t sure. Looking up I could see that I stood beneath the Old Town Yankee, her green canvas hull looming above, the copper covered keel dark with age, but still sturdy and willing. I unwound the cotton cords and eased her 15’ length to the dusty floor.

The cedar frame had a few flaws but was still beautiful and inviting. The thwarts and woven seats were lacking some finish and her painted canvas was crazed with age but a small amount of love from the right person would bring her back to the look of her youth. As I ran my hand along the gunnels I was taken back to 1942, the year after her birth.
We slid silently along the calm, misty backwaters of the Aroostook. Slipping her bow into the tall grass along the bank I stepped out and began to strip line from my bamboo fly rod. I turned and looked at her lying there in all of her slim, shapely beauty and knew that this was going to be the last time we would do this for a long while. War was upon us and the world was a mess. But there lying on the grassy bank was something to be proud of. I’m not sure why, but that little canoe gave me faith. I knew that we would come out of this OK.

Jack, the new owner of the property, removed the rusty pad lock and walked into the boat house. There in front of him on the otherwise dry floor was a puddle of water. Looking up he could see the hull of the Old Town glistening in the filtered light. No one had been in here for years. He wondered. Well, it didn’t matter. The boat house was going to go and the contents were to be sold. Jack walked out and locked the door behind him.