(When I wrote this column last Thursday I had no idea some of us New Englandahs were going to need boats to travel the flooded roads. This Small Pond is dedicated to Noah and his wife.)

Column: Small Pond
Hampton Union, May 16
The boating season begins
"The mole and the water rat had been up since dawn very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening of the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles, repairing cushions, hunting for missing boat hooks, and so on . . ."
- From “The Wind in the Willows” by Kenneth Grahame
On Monday, May 8 – the only sunny day last week – our little boat, the 17-foot Howahya, had its first dip of the season in Hampton Harbor.
My husband backed the trailer down the state launching ramp in one smooth motion. He’s my hero when he does that. When I get brave enough to take my turn, people sitting on the porches of those fancy new condos will have a good laugh.
A lobster boat was angling up to a dock, traps rattling in the stern. On board the Starfish, the crew was prepping for a season of party-boat fishing and whale watching.
Boating is a pleasure. The exceptions to that rule eventually turn into good stories.
Now we laugh about the time I was casting for schoolies and hooked him in the back of the hat. And the time he forgot to put the drain plug in and might have sunk his entire family, slowly, in the middle of Great Bay.
I think marriage is a little like being stuck in a boat with one other person for the rest of your life. You have to learn to get along in a small space. Sometimes it’s cozy. Other times you want to jump overboard and swim for shore.
Everybody who’s been married awhile already knows that.
We had one Mars-Venus moment on this trip.
I thought “let’s go for a little boat ride” meant puttering slowly up into the marsh in the bright sunshine, paper cup of coffee in hand, feet propped on the console. We would chat companionably about the weather, maybe our feelings. Or at least our feelings about the weather.
“This sunshine makes me feel languorous, my love.”
“I am positively giddy with spring, my sweet!”
My husband thought “a little boat ride” meant extensive fiddling with the new baitwell pump then blazing up the Hampton River at 22 miles per hour. In an open boat, over 52-degree water, that makes 55-degree air feel like about 35 and I said so.
“I told you to wear a coat,” he said, companionably.
My coffee splashed onto my anorak and my hat blew off and hung from the strap around my neck.
“Can we slow down please?”
“I have to burn the oil off the cylinders. I fogged the engine for the winter.” I think that’s what he said. He was looking at the horizon.
When the oil was vaporized I took a turn at the helm. We puttered up a snaking branch of the Hampton River.
“Red right return,” I reminded myself. Then the navigational aids were gone and we kept an eye on the depth finder. At 2 feet we tipped up the engine a few inches.
The marsh was still winter brown. Wooden duck blinds sat weathering in the same spots as last year. Here and there low circles of wooden posts jutted where, in olden days, haycocks of marsh grass were piled after scything to dry.
The salt hay was used for mulch, insulation and cattle fodder. Its nutritional value was said to be excellent; farmers didn’t need to buy supplements, or salt licks.
A man in an orange coat and hat was walking two dogs out the railroad causeway. Our dog whined once then returned to being a conscientious crew member. He divided his attention between his people and the seagull-speckled horizon.
In the midst of the populous Seacoast the marsh felt like a wilderness of fresh air, good earthy muck, and cool blue ribbons of water.
We rode in companionable silence, two afloat in a little boat.
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