Metaphorical Leaks in Metaphorical Boats

Stillman's boat leaks.

Metaphorically speaking, because Stillman doesn't have a boat. He likes boats, likes the idea of them, but he does not understand them—real boats or the metaphors they sail on. But he knows writers are supposed to dwell on sailboats--working with and adapting to the reality of wind and sea and all that to go wherever the wind and sea are likely to take them anyway.

More or less, and metaphorically speaking.

But he sat and thought of a boat last week, saw himself inside it with a caulking gun and torn up towels to be stuffed into whatever cracks he might conjure. But then he went topside and his imaginary boat was high and dry and up on a frame in a driveway. It couldn't leak and yet he feared it would. And he thought, perhaps, boats should have a chance to leak for real in real water.

Metaphorically speaking.

No, it is not his boat that leaks but his downstairs room. It leaks when it rains heavily—like last night. His downstairs room is below a flat, tiled deck. It is not obvious where the rain gets in, but it does most every time heavy showers slide in from the east. For Stillman, the phrase "the rain gets in" always brings to mind the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band song about fixing a hole. But it is not possible to fix this hole, as far as he can suss out, because there is no hole, as such. There is only the tile of the deck above, and the seams of the boards in the ceiling below. The rain gets in where it can't be seen or stopped. To fix that hole would be to remove the deck and ceiling and start over, with little confidence that such an effort would find and fix the hole, or simply send new rains in search of new leaks.

It drips pretty much all day after a heavy rain, like last night. The water has created its stream bed and now seeps in it.

The rain last night was so heavy the leak worked its way along the seam to the middle of Stillman's downstairs room. It also found ways through the cracks where the main house meets the downstairs room. It came in along the wall. He put out small plastic trash cans, towels, an empty cat food pail to catch the obvious drops. Still, the leaks water-stained the Maramekko canvas of a navy blue sailboat on a navy blue wave that hangs above the bed. 

Ironic, really.

The leaks in his room do not bother Stillman overly much. As long as they don't wet the bed or waterlog his desk, he works around them. He actually feels good about not worrying about working around them.

However, he thinks it is time, perhaps, to accept that his boat is already in water and he already knows how to sail his boat--in a fashion. He now accepts that it leaks, that all boats leak. All boats leak no matter how long one pretends to keep the boat on shore and inspects its inner hull and caulks this and stuffs rags in that.

It leaks. Life leaks. That is what pumps are for, Stillman tells himself.

Metaphorical pumps for metaphorical leaks in metaphorical boats.