For seventy years, Joshua Harrison had paddled up-river in his dory. His patience was that of the river itself. In the treacherous shallows he would navigate with a pole, and as he passed through the clear emerald eddies, he would deftly switch to his paddle in one fluid movement. At the age of seventy-six, the old black man was well-acquainted with both joy and pain. Life was always hard, but sweet, and with patience all things eventually came to pass. This year his bumper crop of watermelons had ripened, crisp and sweet, at the very peak of perfection, and had yielded him more money than any other season in his memory. So, Joshua had rewarded himself by investing in a little five-horsepower outboard motor.Now, with a battered straw hat pulled low over his brow, old Joshua steered upstream in the old mahogany dory, staring into the deep green river. Although his eyes were rheumy, he could still make out the shape of the large tarpon as it glided beneath him. They had much in common. The tarpon had swum upstream from the sea for over a hundred miles, and like Joshua, it had fought the current every step of the way in the failing strength of old age. Soon the fish would spawn in the fresh mountain water; then it would die. But for Joshua, things would be easier now. His callused black hand was steady on the rudder as he listened contentedly to the hum of the machine.
Joshua could not know that he was destined to outlive his outboard motor. Twelve years would pass, the machine would die, crops would fail, and he would find himself paddling upstream once again. But even then, the old man would never complain, or give any thought to the irony. He was a river man, not a philosopher.