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.
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