There was a second person sitting on the boat. The boat was heading right for the gate.
The driver of the boat had no intention of stopping at the gate. The second person had no say in the matter of stopping at the gate. The boat rammed the gate, crashed through.
The train hits the boat, throwing the second person overboard. Boat in splinters. Crap all over. Train continues on. Boat debris spins and bobs and twirls in the train’s wake. Some of the boat sinks. Some stays on the surface, forlorn. The driver of the boat is nowhere to be found. The second person is nowhere to be found. A boat is dispatched. Divers. A helicopter, too. Persons inside looking down, hoping to find the driver and the second person in life vests, clinging to a bit of flotsam, the back of a whale, a friendly dolphin, anything at all. The significant other now on the scene, on shore, waiting. So unlike him. Not to stop. Always such a cautious driver. No points on his license, none at all. Top insurance rating. No surcharge, discounts every year. For as long as I can remember. Must have been something. Heart failure. Stroke. Oh God oh God what a way to go. What a way to go.
The search continues. News vans and news crews arrive, hang around, fix makeup, file stories, lose interest, pack up, go home. Back to the studio or to a scene of the crime.
After two days the search is abandoned. After one day the gate is repaired and flowers and crucifixes and candles of photos of the missing appear on the scene. Fresh flowers. Refreshed every few days for weeks, months, then less often, then never. Flowers die, float away. Photos fade, disintegrate. Bits of boat long gone. Sport divers now sometimes find trinkets on the bottom, wonder where they came from, how long they have been there. Nothing of value, though.
Never found the second person. Never found the driver. Bones for fishes.