Adventures in Boating

In 1988 I bought a boat; in 1994 I sold it. In affirmation of a sentiment articulated by thousands of other disillusioned boat owners, they were two of the happiest days of my life.

Science teaches us that life originated in a water habitat. History reveals that man, ever since he emerged from the swamp and discovered the principle of buoyancy, driven either by nostalgia or necessity, has been eager to return.

The first boats were undoubtedly utilitarian -- designed to transport people and products more efficiently than could pack animals or their own two feet, to facilitate the gathering of edible water-dwelling creatures, or to carry the curious and courageous into uncharted territories. But it probably wasn't long before the recreational allure of boating asserted itself, as pleasure-seekers were enticed aboard by sun and spray -- by the prospect of a freedom, tranquility, and escape they could not find on dry land.

My own motives were strictly pragmatic. Recently divorced, I was seeking a weekend activity to engage three lively children and one that might exhibit to single ladies my sportive nature and add some romance to a budding relationship.

My observation of boat owners back then had led me to conclude that, for them, their boats were more than recreational or sporting vehicles; they morphed into those toys so many men of means like to accumulate, revisiting their childhoods on a grander scale, or served to express a pure maleness (hardly any boat-owners were female) and, by extension, masculinity and virility. Viewed either way, bigger was better: the bigger the boat, the bigger the toy, or the bigger the you-know-what. And every boating enthusiast I knew was always trading up.

Actually I didn't buy the boat myself. My father, homebound by the cancer he would succumb to eight months later, brightened noticeably at my new-found interest and volunteered to finance the purchase. Whether this offer stemmed from generosity or perversity is a question for my readers to decide. Fifty years ago, before Smith Mountain disappeared into the lake of the same name, I dimly recall that my father shared ownership of a houseboat he and his partners kept anchored on the James River at Reusens. This experiment was apparently short-lived and not altogether satisfying, since, in later years, I don't remember my father ever setting foot on another boat, even a cruise ship. In more ways than one, I guess, I was destined to relive his misadventures.

Flush with cash, brimming with anticipatory excitement, yet unable to suppress entirely a nagging apprehension, I hastened to the nearest reputable boating establishment, and, upon the advice of an expert friend, drove off with a shiny blue-and-white 21-foot Baybreeze runabout. Foreshadowing an inauspicious future, shortly thereafter the boat store unceremoniously shuttered its doors, while my friend fell prey to a messy divorce, losing his wife, his house, and, most grievously, his boat.

Within days, I was rudely awakened to the pitfalls of boat ownership by the sudden realization that the operation and performance of this machine was not at all analogous to that of an automobile, as I had naively and erroneously assumed. With the simple turn of a key, cars start 99.9% of the time. You steer them through clearly delineated traffic lanes where other drivers observe generally accepted rules of the road. When you are finished using it, you park your car at your destination, lock the door with a remote control, and walk away. And, in spite of constant exposure to sun, snow, sleet, and rain, cars do not rust, deteriorate, or require any special maintenance, other than an occasional oil change and filling the radiator with antifreeze once every five years.

A boat, on the other hand, demands as much coddling as a newborn child. Why this piece of equipment, built for water travel, is best preserved when taken out of the water remains a mystery to me. It collects dirt, grime, and mildew with amazing rapidity and regularity. There are no rules of the road, other than yield to a bigger boat or get crushed. Twice a year you must put your boat (and yourself) through an expensive and bothersome process known as winterizing (and dewinterizing), unless you want to freeze (or burn up) your engine block. And, regardless of the level of tender-loving care lavished on your boat, you nervously approach it each time out with bated breath and one crucial question burning in your brain: will it start?

Most of my boating history has conveniently faded into oblivion. But, in fact, the tantalizing samples I am about to present will more than suffice for you to glean the full flavor. To appreciate these delights, you must know that, for the first two or three years I owned my boat, I dry-docked it on the trailer, a foolish exercise in false economy. Consequently, every time I used my boat, I had to attach the trailer to my boat hitch, maneuver it down a steep incline, back it into the water, unhook the boat, get back in the car, and pull the trailer up from the ramp. This meant that by the time I was ready to get in the boat and start it up, I was thoroughly exhausted. It also meant that the sophisticated stereo equipment I (or my father) had paid extra for was stolen within a month.

Nevertheless, I persevered.

Not long after acquiring my boat, I was smitten by a lady to whom I began to devote serious energy and attention. Since she was, in her words, "a hard-working country girl," I thought a relaxing, peaceful, nautical tour of Smith Mountain Lake might appeal to her sensibilities. I chose a weekday afternoon -- to avoid any intrusive boat traffic -- purchased some cold cuts, cheese, and bread, and brought along a little wine to kindle the romance.

It was a glorious day, the kind that makes a man think all his struggles with his boat just might be worthwhile. The cloudless blue sky formed a perfect canopy over the bottle-green lake expanse and distant shoreline. The sun warmed our upper bodies, yet the heat was moderated by a gentle breeze which ruffled the water's surface, adding a rhythmic element to the idyllic setting.

The day progressed nicely into late afternoon. Overcoming my natural clumsiness, I handled the boat quite well, guiding it about the lake, pointing out significant landmarks (the few that I knew, lying about the others), and locating a quiet, sheltered cove where we could partake of food and beverage and engage in lighthearted conversation. Since I had agreed to get her home to her two boys by a certain hour, we had just begun to cruise across the lake to the boat landing when the engine emitted an ominous cough, sputtered, and then meekly expired, leaving us adrift, in silence, solitude, and suspended animation.

Mechanically challenged as I was, there was no hope of my figuring out a way to restart the engine. Out of stubbornness or stupidity, I had neglected to equip the boat with paddles. Frustrated and despondent, I cursed, fussed, stammered, and appealed hopelessly to the heavens, while my more self-possessed companion exhibited admirable patience and jocularity.

Fortunately, after an hour of hand-wringing, came the deus ex machina, another boater who, grasping our predicament but not wanting to risk either boat on a longer journey, volunteered to tow us to the near side of the lake -- the Franklin County side. He then offered to take me back across the lake to get my trailer.

If you think Smith Mountain Lake is big, try semi-circumnavigating it -- twice. The road was narrow, twisting, and uneven, the ride endless and harrowing, made even moreso by the rattle of the empty trailer on the way out and the unstable weight of the loaded one on the way back. More than once during that trip I entertained thoughts of abandoning the boat where it rested and taking up some less strenuous form of relaxation, but I couldn't bear the thought of allowing it to conquer me.

Shortly after sunset, weary and dispirited, we deposited the boat at the Marina and headed home, my nerves as frazzled as that sputtering motor, the romance of a perfect date evaporating in the wind like the smoke from a burnt-out engine.

I hadn't learned my lesson, however. A few months later I went back for more punishment -- and took my children. Already familiar with their father's manual ineptitude -- at the tender ages of eight, eleven, and fourteen -- they were justifiably skeptical of these marine excursions. Having repaired the motor and coped with a major crisis, I had gained a new level of confidence and was anxious to showcase my proficiency.

The day was somewhat overcast, with lowering clouds on the horizon, but having made the one-hour journey to the lake and packing more sandwiches and beverages (of the non-alcoholic variety), I was undaunted by any threatening weather. We executed a successful launch, motored around the lake for an hour, and were ready to break out the food when we noticed the boat listing precariously and water collecting at our feet. About this time a light rain began to fall, dampening our clothes and our spirits but hardly enough to fill the boat with water.

In a matter of minutes the boat was riding low, rocking unsteadily, and becoming difficult to handle, while the water continued to rise, although at a very slow rate. "This is not looking good, kids," I brilliantly concluded. "I think we need to bring this boat in." Naturally, they were disappointed, but faced with a choice of sinking or going ashore, they finally concurred. Much to my surprise -- and gratification - -the motor started up promptly, and, barely afloat, we crawled towards dry land.

By the time we reached the boat ramp, I was in a state of panic, knowing full well that we had narrowly escaped disaster. I jumped out of the boat, dashed to the car, and, probably on the third try, backed the trailer far enough into the water to enable us to hook up the boat, which had almost swamped. As the rain's intensity increased, further jarring my nerves, I frantically jerked our towels and food supplies out of the boat, threw them in the trunk of the car, and slammed down the top.

I rushed around to the driver's side, reached into my pocket for the car keys, and came up empty-handed. Oh yes, standing there in the thickening rain, with a boat full of water sitting on a trailer halfway up the ramp, I had locked the keys in the trunk of the car. I slumped dejectedly onto the the front seat, pounded my fists on the steering wheel, and let out a stream of curses which were only drowned out by the rain beating on the car's roof.

The rest of the story -- and its embarrassing denouement -- can be swiftly told. My resourceful lads attacked the back seat, which, this being an ancient two-door Cutlass, did not fold down, managed to detach it from its moorings, crawled into the trunk, and retrieved the keys. Slowly, very slowly, as my rear wheels strained against the weight and gripped for traction, I was able to pull the boat far enough up the ramp to allow the water to empty out -- through the bolt hole, which I had forgotten to plug the last time I drained the bottom of the boat, and the root cause of our sinking spell.

I wasn't savvy enough to sell my boat, even after that painful episode. No, I continued to pour more money into it, renting a lift berth, winterizing and dewinterizing it, and paying for miscellaneous service to keep it functioning for the half-dozen times I used it over the next twenty-four months. And every voyage was as tiresome and cheerless as the one before.

At last, mercifully, dawned the second greatest day in this boat-owner's life, when, with a rush of exhilaration and a surge of joy, I was able to relieve myself of this floating albatross. I sold it for a pittance, but it was worth every penny lost. And my psychic remuneration more than compensated for any material shortfall, for I found solace in the thought of having served up a double dose of happiness to the proud new owner, the first being his day of purchase and the second, of course, the day he decides he can suffer no more and sells my boat again.