in bed all that week, and when we go out the next weekend, I’m wearing my old back brace. It’s going to be smeared with oil, too. Poor Rosemary soaks our swimsuits, shower caps and socks in white spirits, then soaks them in soapy water after each session. The boys are beginning to lose enthusiasm, naturally, and we try bucking each other up with songs of labor. ‘Yo Ho Heave Ho’ or ‘Tote That Barge, Lift That Bale’ seem to be the favorites. It helps.
Worst of all, both Matt and Tom begin to break out in gigantic boils all over their backs. It’s almost impossible – even in a hot shower with cleansing powder – to scrub the oil out of our skin. Each Monday, the boys arrive at school looking like terminal cases with a terrible disease, dark rings around their eyes, hair sticky and discolored, boils flaring away. And then, as with the goo Matt and I spread all over the hull of the wooden boat, just when we start looking almost human, it’s back to the barge.
But believe it or not, we do pull out all that oil in four weekends. M. Teurnier is beginning to be impatient. I don’t think he figured on a family act. We’re all sore, filthy, but impressed with ourselves. Next week, M. Teurnier will push or pull our metal boat along the fifty twisting kilometers, through the locks, between where it is now and Port Marly, where the sinking wooden boat awaits. They’ll be starting at six in the morning Wednesday to avoid some of the crowds at the locks.
I really don’t yet believe, or understand, how they can hoist my wooden boat up onto the metal hull. I don’t want to think about it even. But I have. I just haven’t enough French to ask, and I’m worried.
We have two longtime friends in Paris who are scientists. One, of Russian background, named Serge, might well be the most optimistic person I know. My experience with Russians, in general, is that they are pessimistic, but Serge is the raving exception. He, of all things, is in charge of collecting cosmic dust for the French. He has ships floating all over the world gathering this dust. Would you believe it?
But he’s a world-respected scientist. I give him all the information I have, center of gravity, buoyancy, weights, heights, everything I can gather I think might be appropriate. I explain the actual physical project, that is, putting my sinking wooden boat onto the partial hull of an old oil barge.
Serge tilts his head quizzically, does a few quick calculations and gives his somewhat studied opinion.
‘It will not float. The entire combination will tip over, and your boat will be in the water upside down. There is, unfortunately, no other possibility.’
Serge has been in France long enough, so there is nothing halfway about him – it’s all or nothing. I’m about to give in, but I go to my other scientist.
This one is American. He was once in charge of the particle accelerator at Berkeley. He’s now working for a large oil company with offices in the fancy business section of La Défense. He’s a research scientist, a physicist.
I go visit him at his office. He’s most cordial, though generally a somewhat morose man, definitely a pessimist. I present my data to him. I don’t mention my other scientific opinion.
His name is Roger. Roger fills two pages of lined yellow paper with notations meaning nothing to me. I don’t recognize a single word in either French or English. He looks me in the eye with his sad eyes. I should say here, he has a strong resemblance to Dr Oppenheimer. He gives me what passes for a smile from a pessimist, a sort of double twist of the lips, a lifted eyebrow over lowered eyes, and delivers his report.
‘You don’t have a worry in the world. There’s absolutely no way the relatively light weight of the small boat you intend to place on the deck of the metal boat could possibly effect the stability of that barge. Go right to it and good luck.’
So there I am. We’re to start the marriage of the two boats in a few days. I drive out to M. Teurnier’s place with the rest of the money I owe him. I’m deeply in hock to three generous friends, none of them scientists, none of them artists, but all of them lovers of the arts, and here I am counting out 5,500 francs in five-hundred-franc bills. I must be out of my mind.
I explain to M. Teurnier, with Corinne’s help, my scientific discoveries. He laughs. He’s just finishing his lunch and has a huge piece of bread in his mouth. He almost chokes, then swallows. He waves his arms at me, signaling little Corinne to stay on and finish her dessert while he leads the crazy American outside to the boatyard.
We go hopping and hobbling alone to another section of the yard, where I haven’t been. He points. I see a barge, and on the barge is a gigantic yellow crane. On one end of the crane is a barge being lifted practically out of the water, over the side of the first barge! I can’t believe it. We look at each other. He laughs and I start laughing, too. So much for science. He puts his hand on my shoulder; it’s quite a reach for him. I’m convinced. I don’t want to interfere with his meal anymore. I feel somewhat foolish. We make our definite plans for the boat marriage.
The Marriage
At last comes the day of the great event. It’s a Saturday and a crowd of our friends are there to watch what seems to be this impending catastrophe. That is everyone except poor Matt. Two evenings before, bailing with me, he sprained or broke his ankle. We had dashed off to the emergency room at the American Hospital, and sure enough, it was a hairline fracture. This boat is definitely jinxed. But there’s no stopping now.
I know that when my friends see the cockeyed enormity of this whole thing, they’re shocked. I’m shocked myself. There, back in the boat cemetery, it almost made sense. Here, it’s a nightmare in black and white with no subtitles.
Matt has just arrived on crutches and has stretched out on the bank, when I see a flat-topped boat floating downriver. On it stands the entire Teurnier mob, feet apart, hands on hips, except for the one at the wheel. Behind them, being towed, is my barge. I go down by the water’s edge to greet them. They have the air of grown men at a picnic. Teurnier shakes hands with me, and the others shake with me in turn. He’s started issuing commands left and right. Matt slides down the hill, even with his cast and crutches. He acts as translator.
‘See, Dad, first they’re going to anchor the barge crossways on the river, blocking traffic; they’ve gotten permission from le chef de navigation for this. Then, they’re going to pump river water through the holes on the deck into the metal barge until it sinks.’
So, I’m to have another sunken boat, just what I need. Matt turns again and checks with M. Teurnier as if to verify this absurd action.
‘He says don’t worry, the crew cabin is watertight and won’t sink. So, one end of the boat, the front end, will still be sticking up. He wants you out there.’
They’ve already, with great efficiency, positioned the metal barge cross river and started pumping water into it. They then manipulate my small, pitiful wooden boat up to it, using their boat as a tug, cross river, just upriver, from the metal barge. They’re also using the motor of their boat to keep the current from pulling the two boats downriver to Le Havre. The whole affair is something like a monstrous rodeo of barges. Matt’s shouting translations to me.
‘Then Dad, you see, they’re sinking the metal barge to the bottom. After that, they’ll pull our wooden boat up on top of the metal barge. Dad, are you sure you want to try this? It sounds so goofy and dangerous.’
‘I’m in for it, Matt, ludicrous as it might seem. There’s no backing out now.’
I climb up onto the roof of my wooden boat and Teurnier throws me a rope that has been attached to a bollard on my now almost completely sunken
