Reprinted from the Fall 1978 Magazine
by Phil Cole

My psychiatrist doesn't like boating. At least I don't think he does. It all began recently at one of my weekly visits to him.

I reclined leisurely in his office. Funny thing about that. In all these years, he's never said anything about my lying on his typewriter instead of on his couch. Anyway, I put my elbow on the roller and leaned against my hand. "What would you like to talk about today?" he began.

"I bought a new boat," I volunteered. "What does one do with a boat?" Hodge asked. His full name is Hodge Podge, but after all these years, he lets me call him "Hodge." "Oh, he points her bow out into the wind and sea," I said.

"What does that remind you of?" Hodge rejoined. "The challenge of adventure?" I responded. "No - I mean the pointed bow." Hodge said triumphantly. "Oh, no!" I replied. "Not that again!" "Oh, yes," Hodge said. "And didn't you used to play with toy boats in your wading pool - the one beside your sand box?"

"Oh, God!" I replied. "But the main thing that I like about boating is relaxing away from every-day worries. You'd like the gentle rock of the boat at anchor. It puts you to sleep." "Doesn't that remind you of your childhood?" Hodge suggested.

"Well, my mother did rock me to sleep." I admitted. "And doesn't the engine have a deep roar?" Hodge pursued. "My father's booming voice?" I volunteered.

"Now, we're getting somewhere," Hodge said elatedly, "tell me what you do on your trips."

"Well, we visit places and write about them for our book. I sit up late at night and sort of hunt and peck on the typewriter," I replied. "Do you lounge on the typewriter like you're doing now?" he asked. "Well, sort of," I replied. "Doesn't that remind you of something?" he queried. "Well, I do remember looking through the slats of my crib and seeing my mother using a mimeograph. I think she put out some sort of church bulletin or something." I reported.

"Now doesn't that make you feel better to understand that?" Hodge asked. "I'm not sure," I replied

"Do you make any money from all this boating and writing?" Hodge continued, unswayed. "No. Actually, I'm pouring lots of money into it," I confessed. "Sounds as if you're hooked on pain again," Hodge observed.

"That reminds me - you haven't paid your bill for the last three months." "But my ready cash is going into boating and publishing," I pleaded. "You're going to have to choose between boating and me," he declared. "But my mother and father..." I explained, "don't you see how they're all involved with this?

And my pain syndrome - what shall I do about that?" I asked. "I can't be bothered with your problems right now," Hodge interjected. "I've got to pay my bills, Did you bring your check book with you?

By the way, I wish you wouldn't lean on my typewriter like that. It bends the keys. Last week, I sent out a statement for ninety-eight cents instead of ninety-eight dollars, because the keys stuck."

"Has my lying on your typewriter bothered you like this of all these years?" I asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it has," Hodge assured me. "Aren't you going to try to understand my interest in boating?" I pursued. "Your fifty minutes are up. Leave your check with my secretary on your way out and we'll talk about it again next week," Hodge concluded, "provided that you stay away from my typewriter."

I walked out of the office. "I think I helped old Hodge today," I thought to myself. "That's the first time he's ever said what was on his mind. Next week, I'll ask him what boating reminds him of."

---The Editor