Jonathan learned early that BFE’s were dangerous.
Out here on the frontier a village didn’t have–maybe didn’t want–the niceties found in the city. Despite his appreciation for those differences and his long experience with these tinker’s disregard for even rudimentary safety, this dock scared the oil out of him.
The rickety wooden thing poked out into the water like a finger in a tiger’s mouth. No security nets. No warning signs. No gate. No lock on no gate. The boats weren’t secured. He might as well launch off the top of a building an hope to fly.
Johnathan looked around for help, but there was not even a windup in sight. He resigned himself to the task of putting in alone. He left his camera and other possibles on the shore. No matter what happened next, he didn’t want them getting splashed, let alone soaked. No doubt the local boatgear would skip into the water and simple tump the boat into the water and row away. Johnathan however rolled the boat over onto the dock, waited till it came to an inclined standstill, and began to lever it off the dock and into the water.
The dock was barely off the high water so the prow dipped only slightly as the boat went over the edge and slide into the water. Momentarily he imagined his effort throwing him into the water after the boat. It did not.
Johnathan maneuvered the craft until it was parallel with the dock–bow to the shore. He pulled it carefully up onto the land so that he could load his possibles without losing control. Once in himself, he marveled that he’d not even gotten his feet wet.
At least the lake cooperated by being placid. And there was no wind.
He unbuckled the oar from it’s mounts on the seat. That small measure of safety gave him comfort as he pushed back from the shore and then off the dock to spin right round.
He dipped the blade into the placid water and paddled off to certain death.