The Pathetic Boat Saga: Episode 1

Speaking of boats, my family owns a boat, and let me tell you, it is a source of much envy in the harbor where we keep it. It is 22 feet long, about 40 years old, and covered in cracks and dents that have turned a lovely shade of brown. The homemade safety rail, built from metal pipe, is bent from where the mast fell on it, and the stays in the sails are made of 15 year-old broken yard sticks. The cabin is adorned in brownish, yellowish carpet with orange swirling accents, and the floor is constantly covered in about 2 inches of water, depending on the rainfall. The motor only starts half of the time, and has been known to leave us stranded, paddling home in no wind with our single broken paddle; and yet, with the help of much lovin’ and lots of prayers, the thing floats, and it is fun.

Every summer, we put that blessed little soul in the water in about June and leave it in until the end of August. Sounds simple enough, but with our boat, there’s always adventure lurking underneath every seemingly simple task. Last summer was no different. We decided to put the boat in on a Monday night in early June. My dad had tested the motor with his sophisticated method—the garbage can full of water—on Saturday and, incredibly, all systems were go. The boat ramp is about a mile away from the marina where we keep it, so our plan was to drop it off, motor to other marina, and meet my mom there to drive us home.

Well, we got the poor dear in the water and to really no one’s surprise, we found the water pump in the motor broken. Dad figured as long as he didn’t run it too long, it wouldn’t get overheated and we’d be good. So, we said goodbye to my mom and she left the boat ramp to make her way to the marina where we would soon meet her.

So, Dad and I start our one-mile sojourn. We made it about 50 feet before the motor died. That might have been fine except we were heading straight for a bunch of logs floating in the water. Not wasting any time, I jumped underneath to grab a paddle with which I could try to lessen the impact by trying to stop us with it. Going along with the theme of the rest of the boat, of course the paddle was broken, and the buoy that I also grabbed in my haste was not only tiny, but was connected to a 30-foot unmanageable rope.

Willing the motor to start and encouraging Dad to hurry it up over there, we drifted right on into those logs, and try as I might, I’m not sure my paddle-pushing-on-the-logs did anything at all. It was okay though, no damage. With a little bit of tuggin’ and a little more lovin’, that pitiful motor coughed a bit but came to just as we hoped it would. With spirits flying, we soared out of that little marina and into open water—well, you know, sort of. Not thirty seconds later, however, that stupid engine fell silent once more. Instead of heading for harmless logs, however, we were within the vicinity of anchored boats which caused a considerable amount of stress. As the blessed heavens mercy rained down upon us and the motor started again, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. My little brother, Tyler, wanted to know what on earth was taking so long. Yeah…about that.

To condense this story a bit, I will just say that by the time we finished our mile-long journey, the motor had died 8 times. Miraculously, we did not collide with any other boats. The dock however, did not get off quite so easily. In one of our last motor-dying instances, we were close to the dock of our final destination, and we caught a side wind. The boat was just so excited to be home it went careening towards it. It got a bit of a side bashing, but nothing that boat can’t handle. After all, it has been dropped from 3 ft. in the air. That’s a story for a different time. I’m telling you, I could write a whole book about this poor boat.

Once we got to the dock, we realized our slip had been leased to someone else and we were left homeless. No worries though, Kathy the Boat Lady found us a home in no time with an, “Oh honey, I’m sure we can find a place for you.” That was directed to my dad. Our boat’s so small we can squeeze in anywhere.

I feel very strongly that that poor boat’s purpose in my life is to teach me humility and my dad patience. Either that, or a really good sense of humor. I can’t help but find that each time I am near it, I find words such as ghetto, pathetic, and embarrassing continuously slipping out my lips. It’s like it’s the little boat that tried but couldn’t. Whatever, I guess it’s just living up to its name.

No wait, it doesn’t even have one of those.

Harbor Haven

Having lived near Seattle, Washington my entire life, I have a special place in my heart for the water inlets that flow through the area. I grew up in the historic Norwegian town of Poulsbo. It is a quaint little community dotted with beautiful marinas where locals and tourists dock their boats. I never realized how special these boat marinas are to me until I moved away to the middle of Idaho where salt water is simply nonexistent.
During the summer, I would spend a lot of time at the boat docks waiting for my dad to wash out the motor after an evening sailboat ride, put away the sails, or perform routine maintenance tasks. I would entertain myself by watching the tentacles on the sea life retract at my touch, or throwing old mussel shells in the middle of a school of minnows to watch them scatter. I would gaze at the beautiful yachts, admire the perfectly-formed rope coils on the docks, and squeal in delight at the sight of a basketball-sized sea jelly pulsing just feet away.
For me, this was a place of discovery, excitement, and mystery. At the same time, it was a place of peace and serenity where I could reflect on life surrounded by the salty sea breeze flapping the sails, the distant cries of sea gulls, and the melodic rocking of the waves as the tide drifted in and out. There, I never worried about deadlines, responsibilities or upcoming events. It was just me and those gentle, slumbering yachts, creaking among the docks.
There exists among the boating community a level of understanding that one can’t find anywhere else. Each person shares that same love of the water and passion for the ever changing atmosphere it provides. The pace of life is slow. It’s where Kathy the Boat Lady, wearing her white shorts and anchor necklace, calls everyone “honey” whether they are six or 60. People look out for each other there. At the marina, everyone is family.
The marina is a sanctuary for boats and people alike. It’s where we all rest safely out of the world’s storms, and for a little while revel in the haven of the harbor.

Love in an Orange Peel

These are my grandparents. They are perhaps the cutest couple I have ever seen. I love these people to death. Having been married for over 60 years, I think they have the love game figured out pretty well.

My grandparents travel thousands of miles every year to attend weddings, baptisms, graduations, blessings, you name it. They pack up the car, and drive non-stop until they get there, smiling all the way. They always pack an abundance of meals and snacks for the road and believe me, nobody goes hungry.

My grandparents grew up during the depression. Needless to say, they don’t waste anything. Ever. They use and reuse and can probably find something to do with whatever’s left after that. On one particular drive from Idaho to Washington, my grandma began peeling an orange. She split it in half and handed the rest to my Grandpa in the backseat. “Here Daddy Bear. Have an orange.”

My Grandpa feebly reached forward, taking the orange. “Oh Wheezy Bug [her name’s Lousie] I don’t need the fruit part.” He then removed the orange from its peel and passed the fruit back up to the front where Grandma was happily chewing away. Then, completely content, he began nibbling on the peel.

If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.

Suddenly, Grandpa got a twisted, disgusted look on his face. “Louise! You left me the sticker!”

Okay, well maybe love can only take you so far.

Plane Friends

For those of you who don’t me very well, I’ll just say it. I’m kind of a freak. One of my favorite parts about Thanksgiving break happens before I even get home. It happens on the plane ride there. I just can’t help it. I love making plane friends.

Airplanes are one of the very few places where we can talk to complete strangers for a few hours straight without seeming like too much of a creeper. These people sit next to us, strapped in even, and before they know it they are spilling their whole life stories. People don’t think they like to talk about themselves, that is, until you get them started. Then, they just can’t stop. I sometimes pity the soul who ends up next to me. He sits down unsuspectingly, thinking he’s going to have a nice, quiet two hours to get a good chunk of his Harry Potter book read, when suddenly the plane lands and he’s read a whoppin’ two pages. This is what happened to my latest plane friend. We’ll call him Taylor.

When I sat down next to Taylor, he gave me one of those sort-of-look-at-you, half-smiles with a mumbled “How’s it goin’?” There was nothing terribly remarkable about him. He was probably 27 or so, wore jeans, a dark fleece jacket and carried a backpack. The average traveler. It didn’t take long for me to discover he was traveling home to California after attending the Boise State/Fresno State football game the night before. This also explained his rather glum expression, as his beloved team got smashed by a pitiful 51-0, not to mention the abundance of Boise State hoodies, hats, and jackets that decorated the surrounding passengers on the plane. It was not a good place to be Fresno fan, nor was it a good time to be the brother of Fresno State’s starting quarterback. Unfortunately for Taylor, he was both.

After some prodding, Taylor told me all about his brother’s football career, or hopes of one. He told me what football means to him and his family, and what it feels like to stand on the sidelines watching one of his guys get tackled—again. I had no idea when I was watching the game on TV at my uncle’s house the night before that I was looking at my future plane friend.

Taylor told me he was a dairy nutritionist. I almost said something about how my roommate is allergic to milk so she was probably thankful for people like him, and then I praised the heavens that I didn’t when he said, “Yeah, so basically I figure out what cows should eat to make the best milk for the lowest price.” Cows. Right. That would have been embarrassing.

This here, my friends, is the secret to making plane friends. Who cares about dairy nutritionists, or even knows they exist? I didn’t. What I thought was a disgusting, boring, cow-touching, poo-searching, lame job was, to him, exciting, important, and needed. So, for those two hours, I let him believe that I thought a dairy nutritionist was the coolest job on Earth. And oh, did I learn! Did you know cows have four stomachs, and after you get past the first three it’s basically human nutrition? Or do you know how much it costs to feed a cow for a day? Go ahead, ask me.

It costs $5.91.

We started talking about what music we like, and before we landed, he offered me a couple CD’s of music (which, for the sake of this story, I will spare the ethical issue that presents) and showed me more artists I need to look up. When the plane landed, we both grabbed our bags, wished each other the best, and said goodbye.

So what is the point of this story? I’m never going to see Taylor again. I’ll probably never know if his brother gets signed or how his business does; and yet, because of him, I was changed. For two hours, this stranger let me glance into his life; into what he knows and feels. He expanded my view and sharpened my vision of the world out there.

He reminded me that the next time I’m on a plane, I should really take a second to say hello to the fellow traveler sitting next to me. Besides, it’s a whole lot more fun than awkward silence.