Monday August 20--
Caleb and I spent the late afternoon on the river. He hadn't been to
the summer office for two years and wanted to see it again. We first made
the passage to Grand Sandbanks for a swim; dove at the Frisbee, threw rocks,
skipped rocks, larked about in the day. Arriving back at the boat landing
I caught glimpses of a slow old boat; fiberglass swoops and tail fins, propelled
by a black spray-painted motor.
Arnold, trying out his birthday boat.
"You got it registered!"
Yeah, but it don't go fast. The motor vibrates. Must need a new prop.
I am fearful for him. It sounds like a bent prop shaft, something more
expensive than replacing a prop.
Arnold backs the trailer into the water. Caleb, still barefoot in shorts,
guides the boat onto the skids. Arnold unwinds the yellow frayed winch rope,
and clicks the clasp through the boat eye. I crank hard, the mechanism is
callused and jerky with rust. When the boat is two feet from finished he says,
"Wait. I want to raise the motor. It scraped backing in."
He walks into the water in shoes and long pants, climbs over the bow
and, with arms out for balance, stumbles to the back. He's never done this
before, trailering this boat and its motor; it's all new to him, owner's manuals
are long gone. He leans over the transom and fingers some bolts. Then over
the other side he peers, and calls it "old goat."
He doesn't know where the tilt-up release is. Neither do I but, "it
must be this thingy right here." I point to a enigmatic chunk of metal,
paint scoured off, shaped like a petal. He comes back to my side and jostles
it with greasy fingers. It refuses to move, was maybe never intended to move.
Then he pulls at the motor, trying to ease the great weighty load, pulling
the unmoving lever this way or that. I get into the boat, and make my way
forward, grip the cowl notch and pull the motor a nudge to lighten the tension.
I jiggle the beast through its tiny free-play. Arnold grunts, "dumb shivelmob."
"Gonna 'git my pliers." He retreats to his truck. It's
my chance to be heroic. Tipping in closer with one hand on the transom, I
fetch up my reading glasses from the cord circling my neck. Move down for
a look in the gloom of sunset, too far over, my left hand loses its grasp.
I study the water for a lively long second. My face touches the water fast,
followed by everything else. The silt on the bottom tastes like snail shit
and sand, I come right up and stand. EZ is barking, Caleb is laying on the
dock laughing. I've gone deaf in one ear, until I knock water from it.
Some day this will get funny. But for now my nose is skinned and runny.
Arnold returns and asks if I fell in.
"Just a little."
His pliers are tiny, with chipped teeth and flaking chrome. He sets
right to work as I tug at the hulk. A few minutes go by but it's not funny
yet.
He finally gives up and gets out of the boat. A gentle man, nothing
seems to infuriate him.
"I'll have to pull it out with the motor down. He starts up
the truck, puts it in gear, the trailer starts to move, then stops against
a submerged ramp lip. He guns it hard, gravel "pings" off my boat.
EZ hunkers down with Caleb. I run into the woods. Arnold backs up three feet,
then revs the engine and pops the clutch. Truck shoots ahead, trailer tires
meet the submerged lip of the ramp. The boat bucks high and lands back badly
askew, motor tip screeches concrete and leaves a deep scrape.
Arnold shuts off the motor, looks out of his window, "Did I bend
the motor real bad?"