without a paddle

the motor sputtered a lifetime away from the village
John lifted the gas tank
into the blue sky with one swift jerk
empty

no current to carry us home

across the shallow lakes
down the winding river

no wind to blow away
the growing fog of buzzing vampires

the fourteen feet of aluminum boat
carried only the following:
one 8th grade whiteboy in hip boots
one 10th grade Yupik bird hunting machine
two shotguns
several dead ducks (various species)
one empty red gastank
one silver anchor with yellow rope

missing:
gas, oar, radio


we knew this much:
no one would look for us
no one would worry about us
until several hours after dark
and that was a month away

we also knew this much:
we had to save ourselves
or get lucky and hope
for other hunters

we didn't get lucky

I stuffed my Remington
barrel first into my hip boot
and began to paddle

John threw out the anchor
towards home
and began to pull in the line

the shotgun paddle didn't work
I removed the outboard engine cover
and scooped singing 

row row the boat

progress came an arm-length
and anchor throw at a time

hungry and thirsty
we stopped and devoured
tundra blackberries
drank the murky water

throw, pull, paddle
paddle, pull, throw

the sun circled the Arctic
and threatened to return
home still not even
on the watery horizon

our stomach's ached
but we laughed,
told stories

we would get home eventually
mosquito bitten and tired
and would never forget
to check the fuel 

or how an anchor

is nothing until 

it is everything