My boating experience has primarily been as a passenger. Whether on the Kratsik’s yacht on Lake Michigan, the Silverberg’s in Long Island Sound, Uncle Dick’s many ski and float boats, or the Graham’s and many other high school friend’s ski boats—I can honestly say I enjoyed every one of those outings. But, when my parents decided to purchase a boat soon after our move to Florida, I found out very quickly that I was not cut out to be a boat owner. And neither were they.
Dad’s boat fantasies began around the time we started vacationing on Table Rock Lake in the Ozarks. He relished his time behind the wheel of the beautiful Chris Craft that came with the rented house, and soon started dropping in at boat shows “just to take a look,” he told Mom. The romance of owning a boat soon overtook the careful logic he usually employed in all decisions, and even Mom got drawn into the delusion. They started scouring the “boats for sale” ads.
When Dad said he had finally found the boat he was going to buy, I couldn’t help but be excited as I had my own fantasies. Having been invited by friends on so many boating dates, especially by my high school boyfriend, Angus, I was eager to pay everyone back and add our new boat to the mix. I envisioned driving with a pod of other boats out to Eggmont Key, or anchoring off the coast of Anna Maria Island to party.
Mom, Dad, my sister, Susan, and I piled in the car on the day set to make the purchase. We pulled into a gravel driveway, my eyes darting around looking for the sleek white, center console, outboard ski boat of my imagination. With a hand-lettered FOR SALE sign taped to the back, what I saw was a garish yellow and red inboard. The paint was dull and faded. The console was up front and was under cover. The smell of diesel fuel was strong. My dreams of boating with my friends vanished in an instant because I knew right then and there that I wouldn’t be caught dead driving that boat.
Boat owning turned into a nightmare for my dad. There was always something wrong with the boat, and Dad wasn’t a mechanic. I remember going on it just once. At one point Mom yelled at Dad because he had gotten confused and almost put the boat aground. There was no skiing, no partying, no anchoring, no fun. It was actually a fishing boat rather than a pleasure boat. After we motored into the docking area, there were decks to hose down, all manner of icky nasty stuff to wipe off and clean, and things to stow and lock down. I was a greasy, grimy, sweaty mess with no memory of having enjoyed even one moment. I think I actually muttered, “I hate boating.” Thus, when my parents announced just one year later that they were going to sell the boat, I thought, “good riddance.” An ad was placed, and the calls started coming in asking about the boat.
My summer job came with no vacation time, so when the boat had still not sold by the time Mom and Dad were ready to head to Wisconsin for their annual vacation, they asked me to take over selling the boat while they were away. I, in turn, asked Angus if he would help me as I didn’t know the first thing about selling a boat. He agreed.
Just a few days before my parents were to return, a guy called about the boat. I arranged with Angus to be with me while the guy came to the house to take a look at the documentation and photos. The man had dyed black hair in a comb-over that kept flopping down into his eyes. After each swipe of his hand to push his hair back into place, his mouth would involuntarily twitch to the left. Making the situation only slightly less creepy was his wife, who looked too old to have the brand new baby she was holding. Angus did most of the talking as I was a bit dumbstruck by this couple. The man was satisfied with what he saw and was keen to see the boat in person. He asked, “Would you be willing to take us out on the boat so we can really see how she works?” Angus looked at me, I shrugged, and he said, “Sure, we can do that.” We then made a plan to meet at the marina in an hour.
With the boat readied for the meeting, Angus and I sat waiting for the couple’s arrival. I worried aloud, “You don’t suppose they’re going to bring that baby, do you?” It was his turn to shrug. A few minutes later a station wagon pulled up and the guy and his wife, sans baby, got out. Then the back doors opened, and four more people got out. The guy walked around to the hatchback, opened it, and removed a large bag with the Kmart logo printed on it. He reached inside the bag, and handed each person a Gilligan-like sailor’s cap. He then donned a skipper’s cap, and tied what looked like a Thurston Howell, the third, cravat around his neck. Angus and I stared in stunned silence as this caricature of six made their way toward us. I can’t believe we didn’t both bust out laughing. We, instead, took the whole thing seriously, loaded everyone on the boat, and went out for a ride.
Our six passengers enjoyed themselves immensely. They had brought lemonade and sandwiches and chatted amongst themselves while Angus tooled them around Palma Sola Bay for about an hour. As they disembarked, each grinning broadly, they shook our hands, and thanked us for a wonderful afternoon. The guy pushed his comb-over back up on top of his head, his lip twitched, and he said, “Thank you, but I think I’m going to keep looking.” With caps still on their heads, the group got back in the station wagon and left.
Dad did finally sell the boat, but the whole experience convinced me that I will never own one myself. I still love being a passenger every chance I get. Clearly, I am not alone.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016
