Boat RAMp

The unlikely storyteller is always good to look out for. An older, retired gent sat on a bench by the Marina and always said hi, but not much more. My family weren’t members there, but we paid to use its boat ramp, to launch an older, sleek, mahogany lake boat we’d gotten from a camp in NH. But its wood didn’t like harsh salt water, and the boat was too light and shaky for white caps on the North Shore’s Atlantic coast. Even cruising white sandy inlets behind Essex’s Crane’s Beach was a bumpy ride, plus if you went beyond Misery or Baker’s Islands, the bigger sea would buckle and batter its underbelly. The Marina manager suggested we swap the 50 HP Evinrude onto a fiberglass ocean boat, like many used ones he had for sale. My dad wasn’t sure, but looking at the weathered wood, finally agreed, but said that it’d be my boat, my responsibility. I was ready to show off my proud captain skills when the boat was ready. I confidently, steadily maneuvered from the slip, between expensive docked yachts, as my dad looked on, sunning in back with a PBR, not missing the captain’s chair. I began to corner slowly, steering right into the harbor, but panic set in, as the boat turned left instead. I spun it harder right, but went further left, crashing violently into a luxury sailboat. It hit twice, so I reversed the wheel left, gunning the throttle to break away, but it careened right now, shooting across, directly into the side of a large cabin cruiser, leaving a big dent, along with assorted gashes and gouges on both yachts. I quickly cut the engine, and dead silence overtook the morning cove, even seagulls dared not squak, as we mournfully paddled back to dock, using a seat cushion and cooler lid. The manager was flummoxed, ranting incomprehensibly, brushing us away with, “Listen, pack up and go. Now.” He’d said he’d handle this and call us. A week later the phone call came, “You’re all set.” The manager was waiting, put the keys on the counter and left, mumbling, “No charge, fellas.” We figured out the steering cable had been wrongly threaded, while switching the Evinrude motor onto this boat, the pulleys turned the motor the wrong direction. But, as we walked out, the older gent, always, and still, on the park bench started laughing, “Oh, my Lord! Well. You boys missed a lot of fun, around here!” He continued, “Well, they went searching, all of them, the whole bunch, all these boat owners spent all day, going up and down, back and forth, here and there.. climbing around the yard. But that manager feller was smart, he HID your boat, way up high, at the very top, on the end, but he wasn’t smart enough! They found it, and matched the paint. Quite a day! Must have taken a pretty penny to fix those babies..” He seemed giddy, but as the chuckle slowed, he looked back to the docks. “Thanks,” I nodded. As I descended, he yelled, “Hey, make sure you enjoy that boat!” And that whole summer I raced the shoreline birds, clipping each crest and wave, surveying the mansions on the rocky coast, not touching anything, skimming the surface, jumping waves and riding on air, saving those moments up, free of it all, having scraped through into the kingdom.