The life and times of Bob the duck

Once again Bob jostled for position against the thousand other yellow, rubber ducks on the River Flowt. He loved the build up to a big race. It was almost as much fun as competing in it-bobbing up and down with the undercurrent of the river, bumping and spinning as other contestants plopped onto the surface out of cloth sacks from above, the anticipation of who was going to win or who would be scooped out before the race began. It was exhilarating. But this race was the most important one of all. This was Bob's last race.

When the rope was lifted to the jubilant cries of the humans on the river bank Bob waited his turn. Experience taught him that patience was key to a successful race. It may not guarantee a win but then being first off the mark didn't either.

As the ducks began to spread out the gentle flow of the river took hold of Bob's underbelly and guided him down. The start of the race was usually calm-a ploy, Bob assumed, to stop any duck getting a head start on the others, or worse getting lost-and this race was no different. It was so calm he was able to admire the scenery: the leafy green trees, the crystal clear water, the swooping birds. But as he was enjoying the sight of a brilliant blue-green dragonfly, hovering over a clump of yellow marsh marigold he was sent in a tailspin and only stopped when he bumped into a rock jutting proud of the river surface. Ahead of him Bob saw a motorised duck whizzed past, weaving through the throng until a wave lapped against it, toppled it over and with a fizz and a pop shorted the duck's circuits.

"Poor thing," thought Bob as frantic chirping to his side, drew his attention.
A rubber duckling was weaving between clumps of grass, alone and in distress.
Not wanting to see a fledgling racer put off from a life on the open river, Bob floated alongside it to keep it company until its mother rejoined it.
"It's okay, ducky," he said softly. "You're mama will be back. A wave has probably blown her off course. Meantime I'll keep you company."
The duckling quieted and smiled up at Bob.
"You look really old," it said. "You're beak has faded to pink, and you're all scratched up and stuff."
"Sadly I am old. But I do remember when I was as young and as pristine looking as you. Oh yes," Bob began. "I was made in China, far, far away, and packed onto a ship for America. But I never made it there. The box I was in fell off the ship."
The duckling gasped in horror but Bob didn't notice, he continued with his tale.
"When the box was corroded by the salt water, it released me and hundreds of my fellow ducks into the Pacific Ocean. That's like a river that's so big it would take you years to cross it."
Bob thought he was entertaining the helpless duckling but the duckling began to tremble. "What did you do?" it asked.
"Nothing I could do," said Bob, casually, except float, adrift, lost and alone on the wild ocean waves.
The duckling began chirping loudly again.
"Oh sorry, no," said Bob frantically. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"What's the meaning of this?" said another duck with long curved painted eyelashes. "What are you saying to my son?"
"Nothing, really, I was just talking about life on the open waves."
The mere mention of the word waves sent the duckling into deeper fits of distress. Rather than cause any more upset Bob sailed off toward a rush of white water that took him further down the river.
The current steered him toward gentler waters near the banking where he came across a pale yellow duck, shivering.
"You're either cold or terrified," said Bob.
"I'm both," said the duck. "Terrified of the cold. It's perishing in here."
"I actually think its quite pleasant in here. Temperate, I think is the right word."
"I wouldn't call it that," the duck huffed. "I'm not used to this northern climate. Give me races in Kent or Surrey any day."
"If you think this is cold you should try being encased in the arctic for a year," said Bob.
The duck looked at him with disbelief.
"It's true," said Bob. "After I was cast adrift, lost and alone. I found the water of the Pacific Ocean gradually get colder and colder and before I knew it was caught up in a big freeze. Stuck in a lump of ice I was for a full year, until the sun came round and melted me out."
The pale duck raised the line of his eyebrows at Bob before drifting into a cluster of reeds and overhanging branches.
Bob drifted on by. "Sorry I can't stop and help," he called out.
Up ahead of him was a group of three ducks huddled together, quivering, their eyes frantically scanning the surface of the water.
"Where did it go? Did you see it?" said one.
"No. It's not here. I must have dived below," said another.
"What are you looking for? Lost a duck?" asked Bob as he cruised alongside them.
"No. Fish!" said the third.
"You're all afraid of fish?" asked Bob.
"Yes," they chimed as a black speckled trout darted through the water beneath them.
"Oh these fish are tiddlers," said Bob. "I've met bigger fish than that."
"Where?" said one of the ducks.
"In the ocean. I was adrift you see, and after I'd been frozen in the arctic and defrosted I was swallowed up whole by a barnacled encrusted gray whale."
The three ducks gasped. "What happened?"
"It didn't think I was tasty enough so it spat me out through its blowhole. I shot out, into the air with a fountain of sea water and landed with a plop into the ocean."
The three ducks' black eyes rolled back into their head and they toppled flat on their backs. Out cold.
"You've got nothing to fear from trout!" said Bob as his underbelly caught the edge of a swirling eddy that propelled him down river.
He sailed past a row of ducks, one following the other, and then collided beak first into a duck leaning on its side.
"Oops, sorry there," said Bob. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Can I help you right yourself?"
"You can try but it won't work. I'm a bit wonky. Too much weight on one side," said the duck.
"How did that happen?" asked Bob.
"Owner tried to repair a slice in my side but he covered me in too much plastic. Now I don't sail upright anymore."
"You don't sound too worried about it," said Bob.
"Nothing I can do really. Just gotta live with it."
"I know what you mean. I was repaired too. See the lump on my back," said Bob. "I had a hook stuck in there. After my expedition on the open waves I was washed ashore in the south of England and picked up by a fairground traveller. He had a 'hook-the-duck' game. They give humans sticks so they can fish you out by your hook, if they get you they get a prize which is determined by the number on your underbelly."
Bob leaned to one side to expose his flat underside and the faded number painted on it.
"Four," said the duck.
Bob nodded. "Well, when the fairground traveller became ill he gave all his ducks away. I ended up on a shelf in a charity shop but not before they pulled the hook from my back and filled the hole with glue."
"Did it hurt?" asked the duck as he tilted further into the water.
Bob shook his head. "I was glad it was taken off to be honest," he said just as the duck capsized completely.
Before Bob could help the poor duck out of the water a fast flowing current whisked him away and through a maze of rocks. He bumped and twisted and turned about them before tipping over the edge of a small waterfall and getting dunked momentarily in the white foam. When he bobbed to the surface he was floating beside a duck who had clearly taken on water. He was sunk low on the surface, with only his neck and head above water.
"Are you okay down there?" asked Bob.
"I think so," it said. "As long as I don't get any more water inside me. Although it is a little worrying. I'd hate to drown."
"You'll be okay," Bob said. "You've got plenty of air in your head to keep you afloat. I've spent a lot of time under the water so I know."
"You have?"
"Oh yes. After I was bought out of a charity shop I went to a house where a very small human used to play with me in its bath. Every day it would dive bomb me under water. Sometimes it would hold me under there just to see if I would fill up."
"And did you?"
Bob shook his head. "And neither will you," he said as the duck sank a little further into the water before becoming wedged between two rocks. "Told you!" Bob yelled as he floated away.
As he rounded the bend of the river and felt the tickle of the swaying reeds beneath him on his underbelly he passed a duck that was frowning down at the water.
"Oh what a ghastly place this is," he said recoiling. "The water's filthy, and heaven only knows what is lurking down there. All sorts of bugs and little nasties."
"I think this is a luxurious river," said Bob.
The duck spun his head round and glowered at Bob. "And what would you know about luxury. I'll bet you've never been the Queen of England's bath toy. I'll bet you've never been pampered with chamomile and orange bubble bath."
"No, but I'll bet you've never been dumped on a pile of festering rubbish when you're no longer wanted as a bath toy. That is far more hideous and foul than floating peacefully in the fresh air," spat Bob as the duck suddenly became entangled in a thick bunch of reeds. Bob didn't want to help him.
As the sun began to peek through the thin veil of clouds Bob could see the finish line, the flags were flickering in the gentle breeze.
He knew he hadn't won as there were a number of ducks already ahead of him.
"Looks like we've lost, mate," said a duck with black sunglasses on, who bobbed beside Bob.
"That doesn't matter to me," said Bob. "I've been in so many now, winning is bittersweet."
"How do you make that out? Winning is the whole point."
"Once you've won you put pressure on yourself to win again, and again, and again. Before long it isn't enough. It's not about the destination, it's about the journey," said Bob as the flags came into full view of Bob and his companion.
"So how many races have you been in then?" asked the bespectacled duck.
"This is my five hundredth. And it's as important to me as my first. I thought when I was left on that scrapheap that that was it for me. If I hadn't been rescued by that duck race supplier I'd have spent the rest of my days on a rotting pile of waste. A purposeless life. But now I've earned my feathers," said Bob with a delicate smile of his pink beak.
As he crossed the finish line his scuffed and scratched plastic gradually softened and the delicate outline of plumage became visible across his back. His eyes suddenly blinked, his tail twitched, his wings separated from the rest of his body and to his delight he rose up out of the water and took flight, soaring high into the sky on the current of warm air. He was real.
'It's not about the destination, it's about the journey,' he thought.