Flotsam & Jetsam | The Joys of Boating

— a semi-regular humor column by Maurice Austin —

There are few things in life as enjoyable as boat ownership. Between the keel and the tip of the VHF antennae, such an abundance of learning opportunities, each pricier than the next!

Last year, after cutting off and replacing the rusted springs on the trailer upon which sits my little center-console, and after replacing the VHF antennae, and after attending to the fuel-water separator and fuel filter and plugs and lower unit fluid, I addressed the more pressing concern, given that no matter how hard I pressed, the steering cable would not budge, and replacing it took transforming myself into a monkey with twelve-foot long arms, double-jointed at the elbows, and only three inches in diameter each.

This year, having purchased a pair of used electric downriggers and worried about current draw, I installed an automatic charging relay and second battery, which approximately doubled the initial cost and thus value of my boat, in my dreams, that is, as despite how much currency the boat draws from my checking account, its actual value will remain closer to the waterline, since that 1985 Mercury is a terminal two-stroke, days numbered, and how I get that kicker to run and pee every year is akin to necromancy, or at least dropping the lower unit three times in an afternoon has proven as redundant, anyway, as chanting “Bubble, bubble” over and over, and about as effective, hoping for bubbles from the pee tube, at least, rather than just toil and trouble, alack, alas.

Part of the joy of boating involves catching up with the salty souls that haunt the marina, who report that everybody came ashore with fish yesterday, why are you going out on this tide, you’re using what—that spoon, that flasher? Why would you try to go troll there?

As a low-income do-it-yourself boater, it can be intimidating to realize that the dinghies mounted on the davits of most of the larger boats tied up along the docks cost much, much more than I’d make in a year, or four, and that my patched-up little water pony is the maritme equivalent of a 1976 AMC Pacer, though at least that Merc doesn’t look like it smokes as bad as it does, since there’s usually a breeze down there at the marina, either from the wind itself, or from the salty souls telling tales of the fish that were caught the day before.

Ah, but being on the water is joy encapsulated, and would be peaceful except for the constant VHF chatter, which provides an audible and real-time litany of boating woes, from overturned kayakers to overheated engines, maydays and pan-pans and Canadian commercial fishermen speaking in what, is that Chinese? Japanese? Korean?

After a few hours listening to the kicker putt-putting along a troll, it can actually seem relaxing to ease the main down to 2/3 throttle on the way back in, motor purring and shadows lengthening, even if you didn’t catch anything except unintentionals, it’s all working, the fuel is coursing through the fuel pump after passing through the fuel-water separator and fuel filter, being evenly distributed among the three carburetors, pressurized and sparked by three fresh plugs, exhausting through the through-prop exhaust, zipping right along, try not to let that bee that just whacked into your forehead spoil your spoils.

And the landscape sails by as if set aloft on a clear cloud of water, curiously swimming in this Salish Sea full of porpoise, seals, strands of kelp, tide rips and the wakes from cargo ships that passed, somewhere, long ago, and which are still sloshing back and forth hours later. The run out always seems to take three times as long, anxiety does that, and the run in goes by in a flash, far too enjoyable to be able to throttle down far enough for, and still remain on a plane.

When I skied a lot, in high school, there was a narrow chute underneath chair 6 on Crystal Mountain, which must have been maybe 190 cm wide, because my skis were too long to fit, so I’d rocket through that gap in the rocks and furiously make turns in the fresh, un-cut snow below, glorious in the turning, making a perfect series of carves on that steep slope, and finally getting down to the flat, when the inertia ran out, relaxing, and time after time, after the danger had passed, catching an edge and face-planting on the flat.

Docking can be like that. Suddenly a raft of wood is racing up at you, and sure you’ve dodged porpoise and rips and kelp and woody debris but suddenly here you are, smack up against an immovable object, did you remember to deploy your bumpers? Hope so.

One day, I’ll be able to afford to keep a boat in the water, so that it can more effectively drain current from my meager bank account, but at this time, I put it on a trailer, and flush the motors, and after washdown check the trailer lights, which sometimes work. It’s amazing what sort of rust can develop on a trailer’s light fixtures in such a short time, might as well string the thing with spaghetti noodles instead of wire, stuff might last longer, who knows.

Indeed, there are few things in life as enjoyable as boat ownership. One of them, however, is knowing somebody who has a boat, who might be willing to take you out for a troll. Treat those rare souls well, feed them launch fees, Gatorades, six-packs, whatever it takes, bring snacks, take flattering pictures for Facespace or Mybook, whatever it takes, to be on the water at another’s expense is joy squared, quadrupled.

If sucking up, if being a boat-whore isn’t your thing, got this boat for sale here, cost you a mere million bucks, though it’s probably worth about $1500, on a good day, when the light hits the waxed console just right, when the Krylon-rebuild of the kicker’s lower unit looks worth a damn beyond cosmetics.

Oh, the price discrepancy? Enjoyment, my friend, and blood and sweat and tears, all mine.

Your nautical mileage may, of course, vary.