Monty says: “You can’t stop a freighter.”

I’m next to Julie, whose real name is Jules but no one pronounces it right. He’s not flinching. “Bet you a quarter.”

“No one here even has a quarter. And whatcha gonna do, sabotage the lift bridge, so the ship hits it? Or climb aboard and start a fire?”

“A dime then. You’ll see.”

“Easiest ten cents I’ll ever make.” They shake hands.

I’ve no idea what Julie’s up to. Armed with only paddles, we launch his canoe into the canal, feeling invincible, like we can stare down a cargo ship or T-bone it onto the island.

Julie steers straight for the bow. Fresh from the lock, the boat is moving slow but gaining speed. Crew members on deck eat lunch at the rail, watching Port Colborne pass by. Soon they’re watching us, yelling, waving us out of the way.

The ship is huge. Twenty feet from being smashed by the bow, I lose my nerve and tell Julie he’s crazy. I’m ready to jump but he’s calm.

“I’m veering to port. Pretend we’ve lost control. Make sure we capsize.”

Ten seconds later, our heads resurface under the flipped canoe, where there’s a pocket of air. The only light is from sunbeams slanting through the water below.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

It doesn’t take long. Above the thrum of spinning propellers, I hear shouts of “man overboard.” We’re so close I can put my head under and count rivets in the ship’s hull.

Three long blasts on the horn are so loud we cover our ears. A grinding metallic sound follows, like screaming steel. Underwater, we feel the vibration, a ripple of energy, then silence.

“The propellers stopped.”

Now Julie’s scared. “That actually worked? We’re in deep trouble if they catch us.”

Peeking from under the canoe, we see twenty worried sailors staring over the side. Three life rings are in the water and two guys are climbing down a ladder near the aft end, ready to jump in and save us.

“We’re okay. We’re fine,” Julie shouts, then tells me to wave.

Suddenly everyone’s raising fists, calling us delinquents and troublemakers. Someone throws an apple, two bites missing. Julie ducks to avoid an open milk carton.

We’ve plenty practice righting the canoe and climbing in. We do it faster than ever and madly paddle away. The crew keep yelling. We never hear the propellers restart.

Ten minutes later, our hair still wet, we sit on the edge of the canal, watching the ship glide into Lake Erie. We’re drinking Cokes. They’re five cents apiece in 1952.

“Pretty decent of Monty to pay up so quickly,” Julie says and we clink bottles.

# # #

Dave Gregory spent nearly two decades working on cruise ships before he returned to Canada, married the woman he dated in high school, and started writing fiction in a bay-windowed, book-lined room. He is an Associate Editor with Exposition Review and a Fiction Reader for journals on both sides of the Atlantic. His work has appeared in more than twenty-five literary publications including The Nashwaak Review, The Lindenwood Review and Typehouse Literary Magazine. Read more here:  https://courtlandavenue.wordpress.com/

Photo: Dave Gregory