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
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
