Coming Aboard

New relationships and adventures are always near. Sometimes, we just have to invite others to step into our hospitality.

Photo by Bernd 📷 Dittrich on Unsplash

The swift and turbulent grey-green waters of Germany’s lower Rhine River were hungry for anything that floated. Its rough riverbed of granite boulders stirred threatening waves, sculpted into whitecaps by brooding winds.

Every day, barges steamed past our living-room picture window, perched high above the riverbank. Some ships rode low in the water, hulls pressed deep into the current by their cargo of coal, ores, chemicals, or grain. Others—empty and ready for the next load—sat high, their draft marks well above the surface. Traveling upriver toward Switzerland against the powerful current was a crawl, a maritime traffic jam. But for those swept downstream toward Holland, the river became a fairground ride.

Our tiny, sixteen-foot, fifty-horsepower runabout was anchored just below our home. To reach it, my brother and I scrambled down a steep embankment through nettles, foolishly believing that holding our breath would spare us their sting. Once we loosened the boat from its red buoy, we would fight our way upstream against the current, then reward ourselves with a safer, faster ride home.

When my brother departed for boarding school in Switzerland, I was left to my own adventures. For a young teenager, navigating the Rhine alone in a fragile, underpowered boat was daring, even dangerous. Yet I had become emboldened— surviving great river swells without capsizing, bouncing across barge wakes, and coaxing the undersized, sometimes-unwilling outboard motor.

The river barges carried not only cargo; each also carried a clutch of travelers, the crew, and often their families, housed in small quarters at the stern.

I was determined to know more about the crews inhabiting these barges. So, one afternoon, I fired up the intrepid Mercury motor and set out alone.

I soon found myself near a fully loaded barge straining upstream, its flat black hull as long as a soccer field. The engine groaned against the current, grey smoke puffing from its short stack. The crew’s cabin sat at the stern, a little retreat for the people who cared for the ship’s cargo.

On the deck, a lone figure waved to me. Curious, but mostly surprised, I waved back, edging closer.

“Hey!” he shouted in German, “Do you want to come aboard? Throw me a line!”

I don’t know who was more surprised—me, at his audacious invitation, or him, seeing a boy daring the Rhine’s treacherous current in a toy-sized boat.

Once aboard, he welcomed me into the family’s cabin: pine paneling, white lace curtains, pictures of German landscapes on the walls. He introduced me to his wife and two young children, smiling shyly. Soon there were five place settings on the small table. Sausage and sauerkraut simmered on the stove. Would I stay for dinner?

Yes, of course.

I was an interloper, a stranger invited into their world. Their welcome gave me the courage to step across the swift water and into their family, melting any unfamiliarity. Together, we were fellow travelers sharing an upstream resolve.

Decades later, I still think about that river, those people, that barge, and that dinner. How much I would have missed had I focused on what separated us—the dark waters, the swift current—instead of the wave of a generous and trusting man.

What I saw that day has served me well for decades: No matter the speed of our journey, the burden we each may carry, or the course our lives have followed, we are all better served when we dare to lean across the currents of life as we call out to others:

Do you want to come aboard? Throw me a line.