The River Queen by Mary Morris

rollers.
    As the rollers turned, Banvard recounted his often tall tales of pirates and deprivation and the characters he encountered. With his “Three Mile” 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 world’s first multimedia show. He traveled all over the world, spinning stories of the river.
    With the invention of the motion picture camera, Banvard’s fortunes changed, and in time his panoramas were forgotten. He was buried in a pauper’s 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 obsession—one I am trying to understand. Just as I’m 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€œThe first rule of boating,” Jerry says, is “keep your nose into the current and the wind.” It’s after the storm and I’m standing next to him at the helm as the lecture begins.
    â€œWhat’s the second rule?” I ask.
    â€œDon’t forget the first rule,” he says, his voice, as always, bone dry. He explains that in a storm you go into the swells nose first. “You don’t want to go straight into the trough. Don’t let the boat broach,” he tells me, making a flipping movement with his hands, which I assume to be a broach. “You don’t want that to happen.”
    He’s got his eyes on the horizon and he’s moving the wheel with his thumbs. “You want to keep the rudder indicator at zero, or as close to it as you can,” he says, pointing to a round instrument with a needle that moves to either side of zero. “You know, even keel. Just move the wheel easily along. Point her toward your farthest buoy. Here,” he says, not even looking my way, “you try.”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œNow’s as good a time as any.” Jerry steps aside and nervously I take the wheel. I’m looking at the rudder indicator as I move to the right or left, but I’m having trouble keeping it at zero. For whatever reason the boat seems to be steering me. It’s 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.
    â€œOkay,” Tom says, “now she wants to go this way, but don’t let her. Don’t let her get away from you.”
    â€œYou want to keep a straight course between your buoys,” Jerry tells me. “You see the buoys? Set your bow toward a distant buoy.” I’m 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. “Keep your eyes on the horizon,” he tells me.
    Jerry takes a clothespin and clips it on to the windshield. “Here,” he says. “Aim your nose at this.”
    I try, but it’s useless. My eyes seem to be crossing and the clothespin is more a distraction than anything else. “Head for that red buoy,” Jerry says, “then straighten her out.” I keep trying to hold the rudder indicator