Saturday, June 1--
7 p.m.-
The sun is about an hour above the treetops and a riot of motorcycles
is announcing itself a half-mile away out on the highway. EZ is sitting facing
off the bow, airing out a flipped-up left ear. Water is running silently under
the hull, eighteen inches higher than normal. We're anchored in the office
sunroom, where I work when the sun is clement and cheering and not unhappily
hot. Magically, since Tuesday, the trees have fluffed out their feathers and
there is shade under gathering wings. A few early spring peepers are peeping.
I fought with the upstream end of the shortcut on our way here tonight,
tackled the mess that impeded our last trip. The tree may be leaning lower
into the river than last year, but mostly the trouble is a sandbar that has
lengthened and built up shallows beside the near shore.
EZ seldom notices branches coming right at her. And I, should I discover
what's about to give her a forceful scare, will blurt out a last second shout
to "LAY DOWN," which she usually obeys pretty well unless too
busy sniffing a bug along the port gunwale to hear. I put down the anchor
and set into sawing. Current pulled the boat back and my arm pulled the boat
forward. A net tolerance of good.
The six-inch thick branch was twelve inches under water. Wind rippled
the surface, and so did my arm, making my work down below more of a guess.
Pushed by the current the blade should've stayed in the cut, but it wouldn't.
I invented new starts along the dark bark and managed, through minutes of
passionate grunting and indistinct progress to gash half way through. The
water provided good lubricant. My arm ached to stop, but just another stroke,
or maybe three, and it would break through and I could've collapsed to the
boat bottom and panted with success.
No. That only happens in wholesome family videos as written by burnt-out
screenwriters who want to wrap-up the script and get back to their beach billets
and amoral answering machines.
The blade bound. I changed hands and kept hacking, and turned up the
volume of the calliope in my head. The saw stopped sawing so I swore for effect.
But it didn't help and I got more incensed, because I had had the foresight
to start my cut upstream so the current could work with me and open the slit
wider as I went. A boat approached so I put the saw down and sat on my seat
and acted normal until it was gone. I repositioned the boat and cut other
small branches, then maneuvered back and forth searching for more limbs to
hurt. The big branch I'd cut two-thirds through was weakened, swept back by
the current enough for the motor to slip through as long as I'm careful and
don't try going fast while pursued by police. So, hell with it. Good enough
is enough.
Out into the main river, it's time for a smoke. I dip into my pocket
for the lighter. Oh my, what a strange all-gone feeling. It's not there. It's
always there and not something I think to bring along. Like a spleen or my
teeth. Or even a sex organ, it's always there. Damnit. I quickly run through
firing possibilities such as holding the end of the tobacco against the hot
motor or rubbing two cigarettes together. Or focusing my reading glasses just
right in the sun. The car has a lighter hanging out in it so backwards we
go.
7:36 p.m.-
Here's the deal. Dribbles.
They lead to unsightly stained sneakers, outbreaks of gossip, and unpleasant
smells inside the boat. It is disconcerting when Wal-Mart shoppers, standing
at attention after being told, "ATTENTION K-MART SHOPPERS," break
out of their trances and snatch children away from my space and hiss uncharitable
words to them and me about me and my stink. I have grown testy to old ladies
sneezing and holding their noses and giving me the finger when we're waiting
in line for a food stamp promotion.
Standing nearest the gunwale as prudent, and bending the back back
while curving oneself out over the water, is uncomfortable and perilous.
So I invented a solution. Browsing through the plumbing department
at work, (this is, after all, a plumbing dilemma addressing misguided drizzles--though
not formally a leak), I came across P-traps and Male Disconnects (though that
sounded more like sociological misfortune). Elbows and angles, nipples and
female couplings elicited erotic rollicking imagery but wouldn't adequately
solve this particular need.
PVC bushings didn't either. Or PVC solvent, even though it implied
a fix to my problem by containing "solve" in its premise. I considered
the hose clamp section, since my predicament could be fixed, though only temporarily,
by a clamp on the hose.
PVC pipe. A ten-foot length was overkill. But what about a fifteen-inch
measure of one-inch diameter?
A P-pipe!
Held tight to the business end of myself it might be enough to conduct
the flow safely over the gunwale and into the river.
I whacked off a chunk and brought it along tonight after work. Just
finished christening it. It worked perfectly. My shoes are dry, the river
is wetter, and I am making plans for multiple patents to remedy the world
of urinary distress, what with legions of boaters going around getting cast
out of mannerly tea parties for carrying socially disreputable pee on their
feet.
Marketed correctly this tool presents unlimited potential for infomercial
campaigns. Camouflaged styles for duck hunters and blaze-orange designs for
deer hunters who want to be seen. Versions decorated in Old Glory Stars-and-Stripes
would sell well during Fourth-of-July outings. Aging males might even find
usage for a vacuum pump design, with a battery-powered half-horsepower motor
for use on the pontoon. Even, probably, a line of flesh-colored P-Pipes models
in 1-1/2 and 2-inch diameters to hawk in the bleachers during monster-truck
rallies.
So, from first-hand experience, I am here to qualify the success of
my elongated tool.
"A man oughtn't show where he peed. Give heed to your need and
pee through a P-Pipe!" is my inaugural slogan.
8:17-
The river pushes. I must resist it to get ahead, or even stay even
with shore. To move forward I must determine more intent, or horsepower. Or
I can surrender and shut off the motor and let the river reveal things I'd
never get otherwise, like spring peepers cheering and deer leaning through
grasses to see "what-the-hell" and "whatta' ya want?!"
The river doesn't care. Yet I think it takes pleasure from motorists such
as EZ and me, enjoying the understated show it wants us to see.