Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"The Dory Man"
For those of us on the Macal River in the 1970’s, the dory men were our lifeline. By 1978, there were only five or six who still carried passengers to San Ignacio and back. These were men of magnificent strength and endurance. In their late prime, their lean muscled bodies were hard as whipcord, seemingly carved from the same dark mahogany as their long heavy dories. But two or three were, indeed, by then, very old men. They were the venerable icons of the Macal, those who had thrived in a bygone era of loggers and chicleros. One such dory man was Old Johnny Harris, and I remember the day he had proudly showed me his outboard motor, and had given me a ride back home to Macaw Bank.
For seventy years, Old Johnny Harris had paddled up-river on the Macal. His patience was that of the river itself. In the treacherous shallows of Monkey Fall, I had seen him navigate with a pole in the rushing torrent, and as he passed into the clear emerald eddy, would deftly switch to his paddle in one fluid movement. Now, at the age of seventy-six, the old Creole was well-acquainted with both joy and pain. Life was hard, but sweet, but with patience, all things came to pass. This year his watermelons had ripened to the peak of perfection, yielding him more money than any other season in memory. So, Johnny had rewarded himself with a little five-horsepower Johnson outboard motor.
For seventy years, Old Johnny Harris had paddled up-river on the Macal. His patience was that of the river itself. In the treacherous shallows of Monkey Fall, I had seen him navigate with a pole in the rushing torrent, and as he passed into the clear emerald eddy, would deftly switch to his paddle in one fluid movement. Now, at the age of seventy-six, the old Creole was well-acquainted with both joy and pain. Life was hard, but sweet, but with patience, all things came to pass. This year his watermelons had ripened to the peak of perfection, yielding him more money than any other season in memory. So, Johnny had rewarded himself with a little five-horsepower Johnson outboard motor.
Now, with a battered hat pulled low over his brow, Old Johnny steered upstream in the long mahogany dory, staring into the deep green river. With rheumy eyes, he could still make out the shape of the huge tarpon as it glided beneath us. They had much in common, I thought. The tarpon had swum upstream from the sea for over a hundred miles, and like Johnny, it had fought the current every step of the way in the failing strength of old age. Soon the fish would spawn in the fresh mountain water. But for Johnny, things would be easier now. With his gnarled callused hand steady on the rudder, he listened contentedly to the hum of the machine.
Johnny could not know that he was destined to outlive his outboard. Twelve years would pass, the outboard would die, crops would fail, and there came a day when, again, I saw him paddling upstream. But even then, the old man had never complained, or even given a thought to the irony. He was a river man, not a philosopher.
Johnny could not know that he was destined to outlive his outboard. Twelve years would pass, the outboard would die, crops would fail, and there came a day when, again, I saw him paddling upstream. But even then, the old man had never complained, or even given a thought to the irony. He was a river man, not a philosopher.