I have fallen asleep in small boats while fishing. When I was young my father made a blanket bed in the bow but the sleep was short when the fish were biting. Older, alone, I have slept in small boats at night, in the moonlight, the smell of gasoline from the motor, minnows stuck to the aluminum seats, dried out by the sun. I dipped water from over the edge and washed the boat down before I floated out. Then reading a book. Then sleeping a little, sometimes rocking in the weeds, fish under me, northern stars, growing chilly, cup of coffee from the thermos, almost 11 P.M. I could hardly see my feet. Far-off lights from the cabins encircled me, dark trees and wind. Rowing back in, everything getting larger, voices on the porches — playing cards, talking about home, about Marge and Judy, how Steve lost his arm, the assembly job in Iowa. I drifted through their lives along the shore, happy for them all.