As Printed in : "Cerritos College Literary Magazine" Cerritos, California, 1985      A cool wind whipped at the nape of my neck  and as I pulled my courduroy blazer up around me, I turned to gaze down the sloping lawn at the velvet blue of the Kennebunk River. Memories of the fun times we had on the river, riding in the motor boat that my father built, came back to me as if it had been only yesterday. I laughed to myself as I remembered how the boat had come into being.      From the time of his youth, Daddy had worked with wood. When he met my mother, who was attending nursing school at Webber Hospital in Biddeford, Maine, he had his own construction business. Houses he built are still standing in and around Kennebunkport, Maine. In my pre-teen years he left the construction business and went to work at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in New Hampshire. It was during these years of being away from carpentry that he had a desire to build a boat.      Now for those of you not familiar with boat building, it is done inside a huge building which is prepared especially for holding large boats, called a shipway. The hull of the ship or yacht is built upward from the base or keel. When finished, it is christened and launched down greased ways into the water.. Since we had no garage and it needed shelter from the changing seasons, he decided to build it in our attic. My mother was outraged at the idea. She wanted to know just how he planned to get the boat out of the attic once it was finished. His reply to that was even more whimsical than the idea itself. It was sheer Down East ingenuity. He told her he would tear out the attic wall and bring it down a ramp. And so he did, much to the disbelief of my mother.      I remember sneaking up to the attic on cold winter evenings to sit quietly and watch the painstaking care with which Daddy worked on his boat. He did not use alot of modern, fancy tools, only tools that had once been his father's and his father's before him. My favorite time was when he would let me drive a nail or use the plane to smooth out a piece of wood. With his soft, strong hand over mine, he would guide the plane across the wood. Then I would anxiously bend over to see all the curlicues of wood that had fallen to the floor. Lovingly, Daddy would toss them into my hair and say,  "There, now you've even more curls for you auburn  locks."      It was a wonderful moment for Daddy when, on a cool spring day, he finished his 15 foot long power boat. He invited his friends and all our relatives up into the attic to see his masterpiece. There was even a glow of pride in my mothers eyes as we all stood there and admired the boat.      Of course, the popular question was how to get the boat out of the attic? Over the stairs? The idea made everyone laugh. So began the next major step. The tearing out of the attic wall. Each night my father would go uop to the attic with a sledge hammer, saw and tar paper. Each night he would tear more and more of the wall out and place tar paper over the opening when he was done.      The day of the launching arrived and what a festive day it was. Momma and Daddy had bought a bottle of champagne and stood in the attic opening, with the bow of the boat protruding out. They christened the boat "Cellie" after Momma and what her father Pa, called her.      People lined up on either side of the ramp that would be used to lower the boat. There was my fathers sister, Madeline, his brother, Hughy and Freddy, Momma  and their friends, George and Bell Porier, from Biddeford,  Maine. Of course my favorite grandpa was there. )  My mothers, father. We lovingly called him Pa.  Slowly they started lowering the boat, easing it down with great care. One slip and it would come smashing to the ground, only to end uop as fire wood. As it reached bottom, a roaring cheer rang out from all. A sigh of relief  escaped Daddys lips and together we all carried it to the river wher it proved very seaworthy.      Suddenly, a transparent vision of my father appeared in the driveway, beside my mom's 1970 Chevy Impala. The stillness was broken with his soft words, "Tell your mother I'm fine. I've gone to church." He was wearing his favorite cordoroy coat and wool cap.      I felt the chill of boney fingers upon my shoulder. I gave a startled cry. Whirling about, I saw a pale whimp of a man standing before me.      "I'm sorry if I scared you miss. The family is waiting inside. Your father is ready to be viewed."      Numbly, I went with the undertaker as if being led like a child. I glanced  over my shoulder to where moments before my father had stood. I found strength in the moment, knowing that no matter what lay ahead of me, Daddy's soul was at peace and his love would go on in all of us.