We descended a long elevator down to the
Niagara River where we would board the Maid
of the Mist. As we already knew, there was not just one boat with that
name—but several, each with a Roman numeral after it. They were up to Maid of the Mist VI when we were there.
When we got to the bottom, we found Gil and
his mother waiting for us, and joined them in line. “I’ve been watching down
here,” he said, “and you want to try to be among the first on the boat.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“You want to get up toward the front—”
“The bow,” I said before I realized I was
once again saying too much. This thought arrived just about the time Harriet’s
elbow hit my ribs and she was coughing eruptively.
“Yes,” said Gil, “the bow.” He looked at me
and smiled thinly. “And here’s why. The boats get so crowded that unless you’re
right up against the rail—”
“Gunwale,” I said. Another elbow, more
coughing.
Gil was laughing.
“Rhymes with funnel,” I said.
And now we were all laughing. “Who needs a
dictionary,” asked Harriet, “when you’re friends with Vickie Stone.”
“Anyway,” said Gil. “If it looks like we’re
going to be among the last to board one of the boats, we should step aside and
wait for the next one.”
We agreed that would be a good idea. But we
were lucky. We were among the very
first to board one of the Maid of the
Mist vessels. I was amazed at the variety of human beings in line with
us—it was like attending a riverside session of the United Nations.
As we boarded, they gave each of us a blue plastic
slicker to pull over our clothing. “It gets a little wet,” said one of the
employees. (He was wrong. It gets very
wet.) Gil and his mother hurried to very bow of the boat, and Harriet and I
were right behind them. We had a spectacular view as we swung over toward
American Falls, then out into the center of the river and then seemed to head right
in to Horseshoe Falls—something
almost suicidal.
But, of course, we weren’t. We steered to the
portside (left) at the last moment and followed the contour of the Falls, so
close that we were all getting soaked, slickers or no. It’s astonishing, being
at the edge of death while at the same time saying to yourself This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever
seen.
And then we were pulling away. Conversation
had been impossible—not just because of the noise of the Falls but because I
don’t think anyone even wanted to say
anything. We just wanted to look. And think. And feel.
Back at the dock, we four were among the last
off the boat, of course (first on, last off). I found myself beside Gil, his
mother and Harriet in front of us. I felt his thin hand clutch mine, and I
clutched right back. I looked over at him. He was staring back at me, and his
face was wet with Niagara, red with tears.
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