My dad requested new artwork for his fishing boat "Mel". "Something more detailed," he said. Translation: "something bustier". Putting my objections to painting nubile naiads on the hull of the cranky, turquoise excuse-for-a-craft aside, I agreed--it being Father's Day weekend and all.
But I'm experiencing some apprehension regarding a changing of the gaurd of what is essentially the deity of the vessel. Goddesses are a touchy bunch--water goddesses notoriously so--and I can't help feeling that by supplanting the first ungainly icon with a newer, sleeker model he's begging to be on the receiving end of some well-deserved wrath. Watery wrath, that is--which makes me even more nervous. I don't know what tempers lie beneath the lids of those unruffled Pennsylvania lakes, but I'll wager they're old and unforgiving.
Besides, what new spirit is going to want to take up residence in a boat where the last inhabitant was given the boot on account of her fading appearance? My resistance to this whole thing stems not only from well-informed fear, but also from pure feminine indignation.
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