Manuel made his way through the woodshop that he had inherited from his father. Now himself an esteemed carpenter, Manuel found the apprentice at a workbench in the back, putting the finishing touches on a model ship about the size and weight of his own two hands.
Seeing his craftsmanship, Manuel told the apprentice, "You will build a boat fit for a journey."
The apprentice looked up in surprise. "I will?"
"You will."
"When?"
"While I am away."
Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.
The apprentice was overwhelmed with honor and excitement. This was his chance to do something real and useful. Oh, he loved fashioning toys that would delight and entertain children and knickknacks that would adorn shelves and mantels, but never before had he been entrusted to build a true vessel.
He made the boat from a dense wood, the most extravagant he could afford. It was the kind of wood known to make exquisite furniture, and the apprentice imagined his ship transporting a king across the sea. He embellished the mast and carved a figurehead for the bow. He sanded the hull smooth and drenched the interior with varnish until it shone. He added every imaginable accent and amenity to raise the boat’s appeal.
When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.
"It's heavy," said Manuel.
The apprentice quickly tried to reassure the carpenter. "Wait," he said, bustling around the entirety of the boat and plucking off various pieces. "I can fix that. I’ll get rid of the extras."
The carpenter shook his head. "Build again."
Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.
The apprentice was embarrassed about his mistake; that he had gotten so carried away, so complacent. Of course his first real ship should have been humble, simple, understated. This time, he built a boat that was lightweight and thin and very nearly bare, save for the most essential of essentials; nothing unnecessary or cumbersome to weigh it down.
When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.
"It's light," said Manuel.
"It'll float," the apprentice said proudly.
"And crumble in the waves," said the carpenter, a regretful expression to his brow. "Build again."
Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.
The apprentice found just the right sort of wood for a boat, but he became self-conscious about his ability to build a ship that would not be too unwieldy or unbalanced or structurally flawed. He had failed twice already, and he desperately wanted this boat to be one fit for water. He made a sturdy little boat, one that surely could endure a bit of tossing in the waves without toppling.
When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.
"It's small," said Manuel.
"Size doesn't matter," wailed the apprentice, "as long as the boat is balanced and strong. That's what you said!"
"You made a boat for you," said the carpenter, "a safe and simple project. This time you must build for more than yourself."
The apprentice sighed with impatience. "Come on, Manuel. Even Noah got measurements for the ark. Just how big should this thing be?"
The carpenter replied, "Big enough."
"OK," said the apprentice. "So what is that in cubits?"
The carpenter simply smiled and said, "Build again."
Then, without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.
The apprentice built the biggest ship he could build. If a boat for one made him seem petty and self-centered and aloof, a boat built for a massive crowd would surely be inviting and triumphant. No one would be turned away from a ship this great, and what a tribute it would be to Manuel, the mentor whose apprentice single-handedly built such a remarkable ship.
When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.
"It's big," said Manuel.
The apprentice looked hopeful. "Big enough?"
"Too big," said Manuel.
"Whoa, whoa, wait." The apprentice leapt to the side of the boat in its defense. "Are you worried about the floating thing again? Because I know this one will float. I used the strong, lightweight wood and everything."
"Too big," said Manuel, "because there are not enough sailors to manage it."
"So we'll get more sailors."
"We will have only the sailors we will have," said Manuel.
"You know what this is all about," the apprentice insisted. "You know, but you're not telling me, and it isn't helping. How many sailors will need to board this thing?"
But the carpenter only smiled and said, "Build again." As he turned to go, the apprentice caught his arm.
"Manuel," the apprentice insisted, "I've built again and again. I need to know more. I need to know who is traveling and where they are going and how best to get them there."
"Yes," said the carpenter. "Yes, you do."
So the carpenter set out, and the apprentice went into the center of town.
He watched and listened and wandered the streets, noticing things he never noticed before. He realized then that ever since he became the carpenter’s apprentice, he tended only to notice people enjoying their handiwork—the children who had received toys built in the shop; shopkeepers using shelves and furniture and tools crafted from wood.
For the first time in a long time, the apprentice walked through town and saw and heard what people needed. The apprentice had only received his assignments from the carpenter, but it seemed that the carpenter had wanted him to surface from the woodshop so that he could talk to the townspeople himself.
But no one he met had any need of a boat.
Then he met a family just beyond the market. With some weary reluctance, the woman with a wriggling toddler in her arms explained to the apprentice that they all needed to get home, across the sea, and didn't know yet how they would make the journey.
The apprentice looked at the family; the mother and a few of her grown children would be strong and able sailors, and some smaller children would need a safe space to travel with them.
The apprentice smiled and said, "Come back to the woodshop with me to tell me more, and I will build a boat fit for the journey."
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