A BAD NIGHT ON THE HOOK - A SHORT STORY

A BAD NIGHT ON THE HOOK

I think I would not make a good boat broker or salesman.  I can imagine a guy coming into my office and saying he wants to buy a boat for his family to enjoy on weekends and holidays.  I would then ask him if he has ever had any training or boating education.  Had the response been affirmative, I would have certainly asked more questions.  If he said he did not, I would probably focus on persuading him to get as much as possible BEFORE he plunked down thousands and thousands of dollars on a boat. That would be the end of that sale; another one bites the dust.

I would also ask “the mark” about his or her boating experience.  Some folks would inevitably tell me they used to go out with Uncle Steve on Lake Whatchamacallit in his 16 foot ski boat when they were kids.  Any experience since then?  No?

My next question, the one which would invariably concern the broker license holder whose chair I am warming, might be, have you ever been scared on the water?  This is an important question.  There are a lot of beautiful, well equipped boats for sale because the boater endured a horribly terrifying experience.  There are few things as scary as the notion of that deep, dark, cold, watery grave to put an exclamation point on a bad day on the water.  Whether it is getting caught in a storm or breaking down in front of an oncoming freighter, springing a leak, or catching on fire, bad waterborne experiences are life modifying events. Real boaters understand (at least they had better) that, Mother Nature has the ability to make boats simply disappear from the surface of the water without a trace.  And, we mostly know, or suspect that, disappearing from the surface of the water is going to be anything but quick and painless. I think I just killed another sale.  If you really want to kill a sale, then consider a bad night on the hook. 

Anchoring out is one of the most rewarding and wonderful experiences a boater can have.  The idea that you can pull up to paradise, drop the hook and “be there”; the freedom to stop where you want; the sense that it is you and the elements, alone, is all very stimulating.  Anchoring out brings peace and quiet.  Most of the time, a gentle rocking motion makes for a really good night’s sleep. 

So, you have studied the weather.  You have studied the terrain.  You have consulted charts and guides.  You think you have the perfect spot for the night under the circumstances.  You even have the proper ground tackle.  The perfect anchorage for tonight is right there in front of you. You follow all the proper procedures.  Finally, in the end, you shut down the engine and you are in paradise.  The sun is shining.  The water is flat like a mill pond.  You are the only boat in the anchorage.  The trees are beautiful.  The air is still and cool.  You can see a school of fish forming up under the shady cover of your swim platform.  It’s serene.  You have arrived.  It’s time for a cold one.  Life is good. Turn on the Jimmy Buffet tunes.  Break out the barbeque.  Dinner is going to be perfect.  The evening is shaping up to be epic.  It’s nice out; not too hot and not too cold.  The decks are just a little wet.  The sky is clear.  It’s all looking good.  You are stuffed from an outstanding meal, and those couple of drinks is making you feel that wonderful, slothful lethargy that you so look forward to after a long week in the trenches. 

You climb in under the warm blankets.  The boat is barely rocking.  In fact, you think to yourself, you rocked more at the dock the last time you went to that harbor and took a slip for the weekend.  This is really nice.  You gently drift off into blissful slumber.  Let the dream times roll.

Ok, ok, what the hell was that?  The boat is rocking and something in the galley just fell onto the floor.  Ok, that can wait.  Whoa! That was a hard roll.  Now, the splash of the swim step slamming the water has your attention.  You wonder if you are awake.  You are lying in your bunk.  It is pitch dark.  Speaking of pitch, your boat feels like a horse rearing up to gallop away and you haven’t even got your feet in the stirrups.  Now, you notice the sound of all those pots and pans in the drawers shifting and bashing.  It’s quite a racket.  What time is it?  It’s only 1:15 a.m.!  You just went to sleep at 11:00, but you feel like you have been sleeping for hours. 

Ok, time to get up and quiet those damn dishes in the sink, pick up whatever is rolling around on the galley floor, tuck a towel into that door to stop it from banging, and secure the glass cabinet doors so they won’t shatter.  It’s hard to walk.  You’re grasping for hand holds.  You have to find the lights.  You find the switch.  On with the lights, gone goes your night vision.  Now you feel like you are in the clothes dryer. Things are turning all over and you have no point of reference beyond your very reach.  The boat is rocking and rolling really hard and just pulling a shirt on over your head is a chore.  Now what?  Turn out the lights.  Boom!  Now you can see nothing.  It will take a while before your night vision returns.  So you sit there, holding on for dear life as your world spins in a blender.  Things are slamming.  You can hear the bow roller on the anchor pulpit slamming side to side.  Oh shoot, what was that?  The water pitcher just flew.  That open can of soda just flew across the salon.  Where are the cats?  Why is the bilge pump running?

Ok, night vision has returned.  Now it’s time to see what the hell is going on out there.  The boat is surging in all directions, mercilessly slamming into the incoming waves.  Was it just the wake from a passing ship or barge?  Is it a bunch of really inconsiderate night time jet ski riders making your life miserable?  What is it?  You venture up on deck.  Carefully, now.  Make sure you have a good grip.  It’s really rough out.  Then you see it. 

There is no moon.  The sky is dark and only a hint of gun metal grey due to the moon fading behind the thick, dark clouds. And there is a serious lump rolling into what you believed was a completely protected anchorage.  Then you notice the wind is gusting.  There is spindrift!  Whitecaps!  Your antennae are singing, and your outrigger lines are slapping the poles.  Ok, it’s one thing to be powering through the waves and making way.  It’s another thing to be tied to the bottom, hopefully, as the waves power through you, at night, in the dark.  So what do you do?  You sort of know where you are.  But, you don’t know really where you can go at this time of night.  It’s pitch dark out.  What if it’s worse leaving the anchorage?   How are you going to get the anchor in order to leave?  What if you leave?  If it’s worse out there, and you have to come back, how are you going to get your anchor down again?  What if it won’t set?  Where in the hell do you think you are going to go?  You are getting hit by waves that you cannot see, but that you sure can hear as they “smoke” on by.  It’s still 5 hours until day light.  There is NOTHING you can do. 

So, you can crawl back in bed or you can sit in the pilot seat.  You can try to wedge yourself into some place relatively comfortable, where you are able to resist getting tossed around too hard.  It’s hard. You can’t really read, or play video games.  All you want to do is check the weather to see when this is going to end, but there is no service.  Besides, you listened to the National Whatever Service previously.  That is why you came here.  So, what’s the point?

Before this miserable state of affairs tossed you out of bed, you were warm.  Now you are cold.  You are cold and you are sweating.  No amount of clothing is going to help because you will just get sweatier.  You take off a layer, you’re cold. You put it back on, and you sweat some more.  Now it’s starting to rain.  Your socks are wet.  There is a big knot in your stomach. And, even your t-shirt collar feels like its strangling you to death.  You have the beginnings of a nagging headache.  There is nobody to talk to.  Your wife is so pissed off she can’t speak.  She is lying there in bed scared to death and holding on for dear life.  Will anything make it stop?  It’s not going to stop.  You sit there hoping it’s going to get better when daylight arrives.  What if daylight never comes?  What if your anchor breaks loose.  Will there be time?  Oh God, it’s so cold!  Why won’t it stop?!  Why won’t it stop?! Oh, please just make it stop.  You can scream all you want, but there is nobody out there to hear you. 

 So, now.  Are you sure you want to buy a boat?  There goes another sale.