With our Prometheus filled with wood and six volunteers, we cruise in a procession of six fire-lighting boats. The onlookers wave and clap, knowing that in moments, we will set fiery torch to dry wood, illuminating the river - and them. It is a lofty responsibility, one that volunteers do not take lightly.
“It’s interesting to see the people’s reaction,’’ says Barnaby Evans, the conceptual artist who created the award-winning WaterFire in 1994.
And it’s just plain fun.
“It’s really cool to see the people waiting and their reaction when the fires are lit,’’ says Lucas Kolasa, a volunteer who figures this is his 80th installation. “They applaud and wave, and really seem to appreciate it.’’
The event can draw tens of thousands of people a night in a season when 14 or more installations are held, spring to fall. And it wouldn’t be possible without the help of upward of 100 volunteers, many of whom have been a part of the event since it began, says Allison Montagnon, volunteer coordinator.
In addition to being black-clad fire tenders (wearing all black is mandatory, to blend in with the black boats, the inky river, and the night), volunteers make sure each of the six fire-lighting boats, all named for Greek mythological figures, are loaded with about a cord and a half of scrap pine logs. They also work at the booths lining the streets above, set up reception areas and places for special performances, and just mingle with visitors. Still others clean up until the wee hours.
The volunteer captain of my boat is Christine Maino, who enjoys a dubious claim to fame in that years ago, she stepped off the boat one night, slipped on the gunnel, and fell into the water. Such things happen when moving about in the dark, Montagnon says, adding that now, when someone falls in, it is dubbed a “full Maino.’’
