Boats & Bungles

I have committed all kinds of boating faux pas. I’ve come to the conclusion that growing up on the water only gives you more opportunities to learn all the lessons more quickly, and sometimes more than once. Some of the best are too good not to tell.

There was the time we were vacationing at Kettle Falls on the northern part of Lake Roosevelt, the giant reservoir behind Grand Coulee Dam. The water levels change each year and shoals often appear where none were before. Janice was water skiing behind our boat while I, of course, was driving. Tempted by glassy water, I ran into an area I knew was probably shallow. Then I saw bottom and nervously started a turn out of there. Too late. Suddenly the boat began losing speed, and I looked back in time to see river rock being thrown at Janice while she began yelling, “Don’t you dump me!” Needless-to-say, I dumped her. She was, you might say, not impressed with my work. “What the hell were you doing?! You were throwing rocks at me!”

“Well, I’m an idiot – what can I say? It got shallow all of the sudden.”

“I told you not to dump me!”

Okay, now what’s she thinking? Am I supposed try and keep throwing rocks, lose speed, continue to gouge up the prop and end up dumping her anyway? “Sorry, honey, I had no choice.”

She toweled off and continued to glare at me while I’m sure the boys were thinking ‘okay, that’s one less thing we have to do.’ The boat was not much more than a diving platform the rest of the week. Nice work, Tim.

Then there was the misadventure at the repair shop. One beautiful May afternoon I came by to drop the boat off. The boat yard shared a building with a body shop. The trailer was hooked to my Ford Explorer and parked across a mild fall line in the parking lot, which was divided into open and fenced areas. I walked down near the bottom of the fenced area and asked the body shop owner where I should park the boat. He answered, then casually stopped, pointed over my shoulder and said, “That your Explorer?”

I turned to see the Explorer slowly moving. Somehow it had slipped out of gear and was already gradually turning down the hill towards the gated fence. As if some ghostly force was driving, it miraculously managed to perfectly bisect the gateposts. Sprinting to the car, I get to the driver’s door just as it crosses the fence line, leaving me no space to open it. Now I’m chasing it again. Reaching for the door I have only one thought –Did I lock it?!

I pull hard on the handle and in one motion jerk it open, leap into the seat, and stab the break pedal. Thinking I have saved myself, I’m confused to hear, not so much feel, but hear a loud “CRUNCH!”

Shit. I look up to see what I had hit – a perfect (well, not anymore) chianti-colored, late model Corvette. I get out and look at the body shop owner, who’s just staring in disbelief. He was so shocked I was sure it was his car.

“I am so sorry I hit your car. Obviously, I will pay for the damage.”

After a moment, “It’s not my car,” was all he could say.

Now, I got a little nervous. “Where’s the owner?,” I asked.

“Inside,” he said. “And he’s not going to like it. This is his pride and joy.”

Oh, great. This is going to be fun. So, inside I went. There are only three people inside, and two of them are women. The guy is 6’ 8” and about 350 pounds – and he’s black. I’m suddenly just hoping this doesn’t work into a racial thing and at the same time wondering if I can run faster than this guy and get out the door before he can grab me. Otherwise, it’s over.

I start with, “I hate to say this, but I have some really bad news for you.”

He stops what he’s doing and just turns and stares at me.

“I just hit your car, and I’m really, really sorry.”

Again, the stare. And a very long silence.

“What did you do to it?” he finally asks.

“Rear ended it with my boat attached to my Explorer,” I say meekly. “It’s not too bad, but the rear valance is going to have to be replaced and the trunk lid has a little buckle to it.”

Another long silence.

“How did that happen?”

“Well, I was parked across the hill outside the fence. It must have slipped out of gear and it came through the gate and down the hill, and hit your car before I could stop it.”

He shakes his head. And, slowly, he manages a smile. “You’re not going to believe this, but the same thing happened to me last year in that parking lot. Only after mine went through the gate, it hit a couple of boats parked along the side.”

I look at him, incredulous. “Are you serious? That’s unbelievable.”

We go outside and look at the damage. I give him my insurance info and shake his hand.

“I still can’t believe the same thing happened to us both. That’s just spooky.”

“Yeah, sure is. You’re lucky it happened to me, cuz otherwise I never would have believed you.”

“Well, I’m sorry. But I’m really glad you understand.”

He had no idea how lucky I felt.

And finally, there’s the one Janice didn’t know about – at least not right away. I was still in high school. My parents were going on a two-week vacation. Before they left, my Dad left Mark and I specific instructions to empty the boat of rainwater. It was moored on a buoy out front of the house without a canvas. This was back in the days when small boats had no bilge pumps, so you had to get the boat moving and pull the bilge drain plug from inside the transom to let the water run out. This was no small task to accomplish alone when it was rough and windy. And, having different schedules, Mark or I typically had to do this chore by ourselves.

Naturally, the first week my parents were gone the weather was awful. Every time we were home during daylight to get out to the boat, it was too rough and windy to accomplish our responsibility. We were both getting nervous.

Late one night I was awakened by a call from our neighbor, Jon.

“Have you looked out at the water, lately?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

“You should take a look,” he said.

Across the black water, broken only by white caps, was the flickering bow light of a partially submerged ski boat. Shit.

“Thanks, Jon.”

“Let me know if you need help.” He hung up.

“Mark, look outside.” I said.

His look of terror said it all. We were so screwed. Dad was going to kill us.

We hustled outside, got our 8-foot dinghy into the water and rowed through the dark and the boiling sea to the buoy. Since the bow was filled with floatation foam, about four feet of it was still above the water line. As we’re bouncing up and down on the waves, I’m wondering what happens when we untie it. But there’s little choice, so we go for it. We untie the bowline, tie it to the dinghy’s stern and begin madly rowing the 100+ yards for shore, hoping we make it before the wind and waves sweep us far down the beach. The tide was out just far enough to run it aground on the rocky beach, but it ended up upside down because we were unable to maneuver it to land any other way. That trashed the windshield. Great. Just more fodder for Dad to beat us up over. With more line we tied the bow off and secured it to an anchor beyond the high tideline so the boat wouldn’t go anywhere. Then we waited until daylight to see what we could do.

The next morning we went back down to assess the damage. The two of us tried to right it with no success. I called a couple of my football buddies and they came down to help us flip it over. From there, we waited for the tide so we could move it back up the beach to our bulkhead.

My father was a very enterprising and creative man. Among his creations was a boat crane he built from salvaged materials at the corner of our bulkhead. At high tide, Mark and I moved the boat into position, arranged the cradle straps under the hull and hauled the boat out of the water and onto its dolly. Then we removed the outboard motor, wrestled it onto its wheeled handtruck, hauled it across the yard and up the 50 hillside steps to the street. Then, we somehow got it into the back of the station wagon and drove it down to the only boat repair shop that would take it – Seacrest Marine, a place my father despised; yet one more thing for him to yell at us about. Oh joy; this was just getting better and better.

Of course, upon his return we had to disclose the whole, sordid affair and listen to the grunting and groaning over where we had taken the motor, as well as the work we would be subjected to making the boat seaworthy again. Further aggravation awaited us when Seacrest took the rest of the summer to fix the motor – and the unending realization that it never ran the same afterward. Little did I know until decades later our sister, the artist, had memorialized the event with a watercolor showing the boat miserably beached bottom up. Nice, sis. I think I’m glad I never knew.

There are so many other tales to tell. Maybe some day I’ll work up the nerve to tell you more.