I am not the sort to link back to previous posts I have written. Whenever I start reading a post in which I am directed to click on a previous post in order to understand what is going on in the current post, I stop reading and navigate away to something else.
There’s your fucking click . . .
That said, I have a piece of a story to share that needs some background.
So . . .
One night several months ago, just as the girls started summer vacation, I had a few too many beers and got silly and agreeable. Mark totally took advantage of this moment to press his luck and ask for something to which he knew I would never soberly agree.
That so sounds like the beginning of an awesome sex story, but it is not.
So then we had a boat. A piece of shit boat Mark bought from a friend for almost no money. A boat he promised would be a fun summer project for the whole family.
The boat was cosmetically challenged in the extreme, but the motor was strong. We ignored the horrified looks we got from our Lake Oswego neighbors as they caught sight of our boat in our driveway, and we set to work. All we needed to do was replace the steering cable. Plus paint the boat and reupholster the seats and re-frame the rotting sections of wood beneath the front seating area and buy it some lights and some trim and some life-jackets and some buoys and some rope and some of this and some of that and some of that and some of this.
Much money was spent on a variety of small essential “somes.” Much time was spent in a variety of boating-supply stores. Much conversation was had about the places we would go and the fun we would have on this boat. The boat was registered and titled, its stickers of identification and ownership proudly placed on its newly painted (albeit stationary) bow.
The neighbors came round at regular intervals to comment sassily on our “driveway boat.”
The steering cable’s rods were contrary and did not agree to be installed until the motor was lifted free of the boat with a hoist (and yes, that does mean we bought a hoist). Mark bought the boat a new steering wheel to celebrate steering. Mark was pretty much running boat-amuck at this point.
OK, but now the boat can go in the water, right?
Not so much.
Turned out the motor . . . the one thing on this boat that Mark was completely confident was in fine working order . . . was frozen.
In boat-talk, “frozen” is the complete and total opposite of “in fine working order.”
It was now the middle of August, and the girls and I had completely given up on the boat. Mark, however, felt a deep connection to this boat, and he was determined to get us out on the water before the girls started school. He was a man with a mission.
Missions are expensive and time-consuming, it turns out.
Annoying.
Mark spent almost every afternoon through the second half of August out in our driveway trying to coax motored life back from the frozen dead. I felt for him, I really did. I could see that this was incredibly important to him; I could see that the boat had become a symbol of something bigger than just our family’s ability to float on water. This boat had somehow gotten tangled up in Mark’s vision of himself . . . he needed this boat to run.
So the girls and I went about our late-summer business, and I tried to keep my mocking to a minimum.
Which brings us to the Thursday before Labor Day weekend. The girls start back to school on the Tuesday following that long weekend, and so this is the last possible chance for Mark to achieve his summer dream of our family in our family’s boat on actual water. Mark sits me down and says we need to talk.
FUCK.
The gist of this conversation is that we have three choices:
1) Pay an exorbitant amount of money to have someone rebuild the motor for us.
2) Pay approximately that same amount of money to buy a new (used) motor for the boat.
3) Pull the boat into the garage and spend the winter rebuilding the motor ourselves.
I suggest a 4th option, which involves a huge boat bonfire and a naked-dancing celebration of the “fuck that shit” sort, but Mark’s face goes all frowny and sad at this suggestion.
Mark is still hopeful there is a way to make this work. He still believes in the dream . . . our family on our boat out on the water. Mark does some research on-line. He investigates various possibilities. He makes some phone calls. He makes notes on his yellow legal pad.
He comes to me with his face lit with hopefulness and little-boy enthusiasm.
I am weak for my husband’s little-boy enthusiasm.
I say, “Fine. Do it.”
It was a glorious Labor Day weekend out on the Willamette River.
Sparkling blue-skied sun above, glorious depths of water below . . . we packed a lunch and reveled in the joy of being out on the river.
The boat ran perfectly . . . like a dream.
Mark’s dream of our family out on our boat out on the water . . . realized.
Of course, that meant we now had two boats.
What?
