When I was at the coast last week, I kept coming back to look at this little orange boat. I would stand and stare at it for long periods of time. For some reason, I felt an affinity with it.
And I have been thinking about it since I got home and now I know why. Why I have such a connection to it. The little orange boat is me.
There it sits, all by itself, on the opposite side of the boat slip from the other, bigger boats. Why? Has it been ostracized by the bigger, better boats? Or is it just sitting closer to the shore and the people who might need it?
And the bigger boats are painted subdued shades. Primarily whites and some conservative blues and tans. Nothing fancy, nothing outrageous, nothing bright. And the little orange boat is, well, orange. Bright orange. “You-can’t-miss-it” orange.
Sunny, cheerful orange.
Another thing: the other boats, on the other side of the slip, are destinations in and of themselves. Sure, they are going to put out to sea, for whatever reason, but the people who will be on them say “I am going to the boat.” And then they take the boat to their chosen destination.
The little orange boat is not a destination. It is a means to reach a destination. It is used by those who wish to board one of the boats moored farther out in the bay. Used, and then left, as they move onto the bigger, better boat.
Or perhaps, the little orange boat serves a greater purpose. Perhaps it should be looked at as a facilitator. Without it, how would the people get to their boats? They need the little orange boat. They don’t think about it—at all—but they need it. It is important and it serves a worthwhile purpose.
I went down to the harbor every day I was at the coast. And everyday, the little orange boat was there. I could count on seeing it there. I didn’t see anybody use it, but it was always there, ready and willing to help.
And did I mention? It was a sunny, cheerful orange.
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