rollers.
As the rollers turned, Banvard recounted his often tall tales of pirates and deprivation and the characters he encountered. With his âThree Mileâ painting, as it came to be known, he captivated audiences from the rough-hewn crew of sailors in Louisville to Queen Victoria. For a time his panoramic vision made him the richest, most famous artist in the world.
People came night after night. After the success of the eastern bank, he returned to the river and painted the western bank. He added music and light, creating the worldâs first multimedia show. He traveled all over the world, spinning stories of the river.
With the invention of the motion picture camera, Banvardâs fortunes changed, and in time his panoramas were forgotten. He was buried in a pauperâs grave, and his paintings, except for a few small panels, were lost forever, though some are believed to be used in the insulation of old houses in Watertown, South Dakota, where he lived his final years.
Ever since I read about Banvard, I wondered what made him so taken with the river. Was it the death of his father? Or just the need to make his way in the world? Was it escape or necessity? Or a bit of both? In the end I came to think of it as his obsessionâone I am trying to understand. Just as Iâm trying to understand my own. I imagine Banvard on his raft, drawing the river, making up his tales. Perhaps traveling not all that much slower than we are.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âThe first rule of boating,â Jerry says, is âkeep your nose into the current and the wind.â Itâs after the storm and Iâm standing next to him at the helm as the lecture begins.
âWhatâs the second rule?â I ask.
âDonât forget the first rule,â he says, his voice, as always, bone dry. He explains that in a storm you go into the swells nose first. âYou donât want to go straight into the trough. Donât let the boat broach,â he tells me, making a flipping movement with his hands, which I assume to be a broach. âYou donât want that to happen.â
Heâs got his eyes on the horizon and heâs moving the wheel with his thumbs. âYou want to keep the rudder indicator at zero, or as close to it as you can,â he says, pointing to a round instrument with a needle that moves to either side of zero. âYou know, even keel. Just move the wheel easily along. Point her toward your farthest buoy. Here,â he says, not even looking my way, âyou try.â
âNow?â
âNowâs as good a time as any.â Jerry steps aside and nervously I take the wheel. Iâm looking at the rudder indicator as I move to the right or left, but Iâm having trouble keeping it at zero. For whatever reason the boat seems to be steering me. Itâs a little like walking a dog that weighs a thousand times more than you do. Heel, heel, I want to say. I am surprised at the tug of the river, at how hard it is to hold a straight line.
âOkay,â Tom says, ânow she wants to go this way, but donât let her. Donât let her get away from you.â
âYou want to keep a straight course between your buoys,â Jerry tells me. âYou see the buoys? Set your bow toward a distant buoy.â Iâm attempting to see the buoys and hold a straight course and not go crashing into the riverbank. But I was never very good at patting my head, rubbing my tummy, while jumping up and down on one foot at the same time either. âKeep your eyes on the horizon,â he tells me.
Jerry takes a clothespin and clips it on to the windshield. âHere,â he says. âAim your nose at this.â
I try, but itâs useless. My eyes seem to be crossing and the clothespin is more a distraction than anything else. âHead for that red buoy,â Jerry says, âthen straighten her out.â I keep trying to hold the rudder indicator
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