Boat Enthusiast

This trip is something of a remembrance of things past. So we have visited places that we knew when… IF they are still there! And we have dreamed of past glories.

Many of those glorious moments were spent on the water here. We water skied behind and rode in the various boats my father owned. He still fondly tells the story of his taking possession of the last boat he owned—actually, of how it took possession of him! For my Dad, it was love at first sight with that boat. And he showed that boat his love as long as she was in his life…

That’s the way my Dad is… He was, of course, the same way with my Mom.

No wonder, then, that once he saw the Lake, Dad thought about being on the Lake. We went looking for a place that rented boats.

We found two: one, near where we are staying; the other, near where we used to live. We chose the one near where we are staying because the boat was likely to be better—meaning, bigger, faster, and sleeker. My Dad may drive an Odyssey but his heart is built for speed!

We signed up, and watched a video designed to reacquaint us with the Rules of the Water, but we were like two kids in school—not paying attention to the lesson, and copying off of each other’s papers. We were know-it-alls! Lessons? We don’t need no stinkin’ lessons! They gave us our temporary licenses anyway… After all, how much trouble could we get into on the water?

Thing is, we never made it to the water—at least, not the way that we had planned. The folks with the boats were having a little trouble getting the one they were renting to us ready to go out. So my Dad and I had time on our hands. We walked down the ramp to the lakeside. We waited.

I could feel the restlessness grow in my Dad. He was impatient to get out on the water. I was looking out at the Lake, enjoying the day and the moment, when suddenly I felt my Dad was not there with me. I turned to see my Dad, like toddler, making it toward the dock. He got on the ramp, and negotiated its narrowness—until he had to step down more than 18 inches from the ramp to the dock’s gangway. As he did, the gangway sank with his weight into the water, and Dad pitched forward. He landed on the gangway, and rolled over onto his back, but into the water. By the time I got to him, he was flailing to keep his head above water and regain his feet. I reached down and grabbed his hand—but it wasn’t the sort of grip you see in the movies! Still, it steadied him, and he stood up in the water.

I spoke to him calmly, gently and firmly: “Dad, see if you can kneel on the dock.” He got one knee up, then the other. He shifted, putting his back to me. I asked if he could get his feet underneath him. He could, but only with his hands on the dock to steady him as his legs shook. He went back to his knees—and started to crawl away from the shore, toward where the dock widened. I called to him, “Dad, if you’re gonna crawl, crawl toward the shore!” He turned around and crawled toward me.

At that point, I kneeled on the gangway, and my Dad rose to his feet with both hands on my shoulders. Then I got up, turned around, told my Dad to put his hands on my shoulders again, and we walked in tandem off the gangway, over the ramp, and back onto the shore.

There we assessed the damage: the back of his left hand was bleeding, and he was pretty shaken up, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow and rapid. He leaned on me as we walked together back up the hillside. We spoke to the owner’s son about what had happened, and he got Dad some first aid. Then I walked my Dad to the car, where he sat while I backed us out of our boat ride and completed some paperwork.

I knew my Dad was still shaken by this turn of events because, when I asked him for the car keys, he surrendered them without a murmur.

Once home, we almost literally had to wring my Dad out! I told him he was one big sponge! Thank goodness it was one of the warmest days of the year! More, thank goodness my Dad was not hurt worse. Being the man he is, he was more embarrassed than anything, except maybe regretful that he “wasted” a beautiful day on the Lake. I said, “Dad, there’s always tomorrow. Maybe today just wasn’t our day. Maybe we rushed things.” He nodded his head in affirmation—and told me I was to drive the car to dinner.

I don’t think that even Proust could have ever imagined that sort of ending to our day.