One day, I don't remember exactly what the occasion was, my cousin and I received small plastic boats — one yellow, one blue. That evening, after a brief discussion, we decided we'd go to the park first thing in the morning and launch our boats. There were plenty of small ponds in the park, perfect for our plan.
Usually, you couldn't wake us in the morning, like any other kids — but not that day. As soon as it got light outside, we were on our feet. First, we climbed the big mulberry tree in our yard and gorged ourselves on the sweet, sticky berries. We climbed down, grabbed our boats in one hand and our slippers in the other, and, careful not to make a sound, slipped out the door and into the adventure.
Summer mornings come early. The city was deserted — no cars, no people. We dashed across the road that separated our houses from the park and raced down the alley lined with huge plane trees that seemed, to us, to reach the sky. In the far part of the park, behind the old billiard hall, there was a lawn with flowerbeds and paths bordered by bushes. Right in the middle was a small pond where we'd planned to set sail. But to our surprise, it was dry.
Not the least bit discouraged, we ran to the central alley, where there were large fountain pools — they always had water. Funny thing: back then, we hardly ever walked; we were always running. If we needed to get somewhere, we'd jump up and race there. Well, my cousin would jump up and run, and I'd chase after him, trying to catch up, trying to beat him. He was a few months younger than me, but with his temperament, he was always the instigator in our games.
We reached the central alley. There were three rectangular pools, about three feet deep. A pipe ran along the edges, with little jets spraying at a forty-five-degree angle toward the center. At first, we launched our boats in separate pools, each staking a claim to one.
"This one's mine!"
"And this one's mine!"
But that got old fast. So we moved both fleets to the "neutral" central pool.
The boats were simple — just plastic, no special features. Their only ability was to float. At first, we steered them with long sticks we'd broken from branches. But when they drifted too far from the edge, we started tossing pebbles from the gravel path. That was more fun. We tried to have something like a race, but it quickly turned into a naval battle.
Now, neither of us was trying to nudge our own boat forward with little stones. We looked for bigger rocks to sink the enemy's vessel. Since our ships were practically unsinkable, the battle dragged on and on.
Morning, by now, was no longer early. The first passersby appeared; park workers started showing up. Of course, the noise and commotion by the pools drew their attention. Caught up in the heat of battle, we'd forgotten where we were and were completely wound up. Until we heard a sharp shout:
"Hey! What do you think you're doing over there?"
To our dismay, there was no quick way to retrieve the boats — they were drifting right in the middle of the pool. Abandoning everything, we took off instantly.
We had a clear rule: whenever something happened, we never stuck around, never waited for a confrontation — we ran, dropping anything that might slow us down. Because of that, most of our mischief — not always harmless, by the way — never got us caught. We simply never got caught. That time, nothing terrible had happened, really — so we'd thrown some stones and sticks into a pool, big deal. But at that age, it's hard to predict how adults will react. Easier to just run.
We raced home. Everyone was still asleep. We crept in, closed the door. Settled back into our beds like nothing had happened, and waited for the household to wake up, for the usual morning to begin with its breakfast and chatter.
And that's exactly what happened. Everyone got up; the day went on as usual. No one ever found out about our morning adventure.
Those little kids are long grown up now. Those pools are gone, that park is gone. But the small, brave boats still sail on in my memory, their endless battle still underway.
