October 8, 2026
Comfort Island
Dear Henry,
Yesterday Conor picked up our 17foot 1935 Old Town canoe that had undergone a two year restoration. It had been away for a long, frustrating two years, with countless delays, newly discovered damage and lots of extra work. At the end, it was all worth it. It’s beautiful. And as I paddled across the River at dusk, the boat moved perfectly on the water.
The restorer, John, was a craftsman and an artisan. He knew better than to be pushed by my impatience. Sometimes doing something right means taking your time.
Paddling a canoe solo takes practice. The J stroke from the stern keeps the canoe on a straight path. Executing it is a process of sense memory, learned 50 years ago. The arms and wrists know the pull and flick of the paddle and you let them do their work without overthinking it. It’s a pleasant experience- alone on the river.
Luckily I got to the boathouse before it was completely dark. Boating at night is no joke. Most people avoid it. The channel has navigation lights: green at starboard as you head downriver towards the ocean, but it’s still dangerous. So you take it slowly, watching for speeding knuckleheads emboldened by too much beer and their need to get home and the large, underlit ships that frighteningly appear out of the darkness.
You can use the Garmin, but the glare of the screen impairs the ability to see ahead into the night, the dark outlines of the islands, dotted with lights.
Sometimes guests, thinking they’re helping as I dock in the darkness, put on their phone lights. They shouldn’t. I know the way. Even on a moonless night. Slow and steady will bring you home.
We miss you for these final days at the River. Hope to see you soon in Boston.
Stephen