“I know it sounds crazy, your honor, but in WHIRLAWAY – my little pedal-powered catamaran – even though I sit in a padded armchair, she makes me feel like I’m walking on the waters.”

With that, the prosecutor hollers “Heresy.” The gallery erupts with angry boos, and the judge bangs his gavel five times – I hear it in the dream.

When things settle down, the judge asks, “Does the accused have anything to say in his defense?”

Trying to stay cool, I say, “May it please the court, you must try it to believe it. In the Blue Sky 360 you will see that whether you’re just strolling o’er the deep, or marching right along, or even if you’re jogging through the waves, you go along at the same speed, and for the same effort, as if keeping the very same pace ashore.”

Now the prosecutor cries “Objection! Your honor. The accused claims to be walking on water, but by his own admission, he is sitting in an armchair! This is not just heresy, it is also a crime against the State, a seditious reconstruction of nautical history.”

“With due respect,” I interject, “I never claimed that I can walk on water, I said that pedaling this boat makes you feel like you are walking on water. You sit in an armchair, that’s true, and at normal height. It’s not like sitting in a kayak with your butt below the waterline and your legs out front. Neither is it like paddling a canoe where, just as in a kayak, your hands are always occupied with the paddle, and the rest of your body – and your mind – are always trying not to go swimming.”

“Objection, your honor,” says the prosecutor. “Irrelevant.”

“The accused may continue, but please get to the point of your defense.”

“Indeed, your honor, I am coming to the point, but there are premises which to fully apprehend – may require the landlubber to willingly suspend his normal disbelief. For example, my WHIRLAWAY is really tricked out for fishing, but she’s actually born and bred for inducing existential anthropomorphism.”

“For what?” Asks the court recorder.

“Just say ‘messing about’ in boats,” I reply. “Like, for fishing she has gear tracks all around, storage hatches, porches and hatches. There is space for coolers, tackle boxes, bait buckets, rod storage…. There are even two, molded-in platforms for mounting power poles, so you can stake yourself to the bottom with the push of a button. Given a chance, she could carry eel traps, lobster pots, gill nets… And I intend to try the old trot line method of catching crabs. I think I can do it alone, because pedaling leaves your hands free…”

“Enough of fishing,” says the judge. “What’s this about anthro… tential…?”

“Well sir, this boat makes me feel like I am riding on some sort of Siamese waterfowl. It has twin torsos that are joined at a single wing between. It has a beady little head in the middle, with big, floppy ears. From my armchair on its wing, I reach out with my toes to fondle her ears – like pedaling. She loves it. and it makes her swim away with me.”

“Preposterous!” cries the prosecutor.

The judge asks, “Will she bring you back?”

“Oh yes, your honor. She’s quite obedient. Like, attached under my armchair there are two big tickling sticks, one each side, and they come up just beside the arm rests. You don’t have to reach for them, they are right at hand, and they work as one. If I tickle the critter with either of those sticks, she turns left or right. Tickling frontward turns her left, rearward turns her right. So she’s rather domesticated. For example, if I don’t fondle her ears with my toes, she just waits, or grazes on marsh grass. if I fondle with my toes but don’t tickle with the sticks, she swims straight…. Well, actually, without a little tickling, she starts to mosey, which is often fine with me.”

“But to where does she mosey?” asks the judge. “Why? To what end?” There is mumbling in the gallery.

“Well, your honor, I often let her mosey into the marshes where we can get stealthy. I’m sitting just high enough to peer over the spartina, and because I’m not waving a paddle around like a windmill, we can glide in silence through the maze of channels in our flooded grassland, and creep around the corners to mingle with all kinds of other critters. It’s a habitat for non-humanity, where the full-time residents allow our kind of trespassing. I think they see us to somehow be like them. It makes me feel like…. uh…. wild.”

“Wild?” huffs the prosecutor. “Non-humanity? Your honor, I think he is faking insanity.”

The judge is waving him off, so I go on. “We sometimes venture into open water, and we love going out at night. But I must really have my act together, lights, radio, flares, exposure suit and such. And if the wind and chop come up, my living raft does not like hauling me to windward. She’ll do it if I kick instead of fondle, but sometimes – if the chop is really steep and from aside, she tries to throw me, just enough to let me know she’s better suited to protected waters.”

“Makes sense,” says someone in the gallery.

“Actually, she’s amphibious. She has her own fold-down wheels, which makes her handy in a parking lot or on a launching ramp, where I can push her around like a wheelbarrow, but if the way to the water is too rough for wheels, I can drag her almost anywhere. Her twin bellies are as strong as her backs, and they’re slick as a sled, so she never really needs a launching ramp. Her vitals (the propeller drive and rudder) need at least a foot of water to work, but they both swing up by themselves in shallows to let her torsos pass in roughly half of that. Her propeller can catch weeds, but when retracted with its lever, you can reach it through a hatch to clear.”

“Objection, your honor. He’s not speaking to the heresy charge.”

“Oh sir, believe me she is righteous! As we say of wide track boats, ‘she’s as stable as a church.’ That means you can jump up and down on just one of her torsos dry-footed, and stepping aboard from a dock is like taking your seat at a concert. Disembarking at a beach or a ramp can be like stepping from your car into a curbside puddle, but it does not require the gymnastics of wriggling from a kayak or toppling from a canoe. And besides, when my WHIRLAWAY is beached, I can usually jump to the sidewalk.”

“Objection, your honor,” “Mixed metaphor…”

“Overruled! Continue.”

“Well sir, this living raft of mine has a front porch and a back porch, with tie-downs for coolers or dry bags full of, say, camping gear or contraband…”

“Ah ha! He’s smuggling guns!” says the prosecutor. “Insurgency for sure.”

“Strike that from the record,” says the judge, “and for Pete’s sake, let the geezer speak!” The gallery seems to approve.

“Uh, I guess you could also smuggle bibles…. booze…. er… What I mean is, she makes me feel secure. I can walk no hands around the seat or use it as a maypole, her torsos are sealed so she cannot swamp or sink, and even if capsized she is still a raft. What’s more, with no petro-powered motor she’s invulnerable to fire or explosion, and – with the help of a hitch extension for carrying long stuff, she even likes to ride in the bed of a pickup truck. Of course, she has a mind of her own. It’s like training sulky horses or field dogs – you can’t train cats but you can train catamarans – ha ha! – but they train you, too, the satisfaction comes from that cooperation between man and beast.”

The prosecutor scoffs, the gallery rumbles, the judge bangs his gavel…

“So sorry, your honor.” I say. “I don’t wish to sound touchy-feelie, hippie-pinko. My defense is quite straightforward. I am trying to describe sensations only, and the Blue sky 360 is indeed sensational. Even for jaded old shellbacks like me, my living raft is honestly a fresh boating experience. That’s my defense.”

After some shuffling of papers and searching for his gavel, the judge cries, “Case dismissed,” and as the gallery cheers, he asks me softly, “Where can I get one?”

Under the noise, the prosecutor growls in my ear, “How much?”