Chirky

I sat next to him thinking about the lessons my dad gave me (years and years and years ago), and how I've helped drive the boat on several occasions (years and years and years and years and yeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrssssssssss ago). I climbed into the boat with three of our friends: Jason, Brandy and Scuba, excited for the joy ride and the prospect of driving the boat and whipping around the lake as if we were in a high-speed chase. And we did just that, sort of, until I realized I was headed for the wrong buoy and there was a tree stump raised six inches above the water, and that the tree stump was about two feet in diameter, and if that tree stump was there, in the middle of what I thought was the boat path, how many other tree stumps were just below the water, out of my view?

You may not care to know that I slowed down and corrected my path, but I must confide for my dad's benefit. Dad: I'm not totally wreckless, see?

After several more runs, we headed back to the dock. I looked ahead and saw my entire family still sitting on the deck, chatting and watching us. I was slowly weaving around the underwater stumps, glad that I managed to drive the boat without incident, feeling confident (and maybe a little cocky).

And that's when God chose to humble me.

While weaving around most of the smaller stumps, I overlooked one large stump. A stump that was a foot in diameter. A stump for which, unbeknownst to me, the boat was aimed. A stump that I didn't realize existed until it was too late.

The boat rammed itself atop the stump, perfectly centered, delicately balanced. (Note that the boat did this to itself - I claimed no responsibility for it.) The front of the boat was about four feet out of the water. I slammed the engine in reverse and willed the motor to ease us off the stump. It didn't.

We all moved to the back of the boat, thinking that if all the weight was there, the boat would slide off the stump. It didn't.

And then my worst fear was realized: water began lapping over the back of the boat, and the back end started to go under. Jason and Scuba had been swimming earlier, and each jumped back into the lake to free the boat from their weight. Brandy and I dove (I still have the carpet burn to prove it) toward the front to counter-weigh the ever-sinking back end.

I watched helplessly as Jason and Scuba, from the water, worked to dislodge the boat. My eyes frantically darted between their work, my dad's face, and my family's sudden interest in our boat ride and their subsequent arrival from the deck to the dock, where they all had a front row view of the The Sinking Boat, and where they were all attempting to look concerned only to mask their laughter.

My dad kept yelling to me to turn on the bilge pump so that the water wouldn't continue to weigh down the boat. I wanted to pump the water out, I really did, but dad was just far enough away for me to understand he wanted me to turn it on, and not close enough for me to understand where the switch was located.

He and his neighbor got in the other boat to come help us, but (remember: the water is two feet lower than normal) it was stuck in the sand. By the time they finally got out to us, Scuba and Jason had somehow managed to get us off the stump – the details are quite blurry to me – and somehow we managed to get back to the dock and climb out of the boat and run to the RV and we were relieved it was empty so we could sit in the bathroom and cry. (Or, maybe that last part was just me.)

For the rest of the day, I was the butt of the jokes, which I didn't mind because I totally deserved it. Roger and Scuba, on the drive home, went back and forth quipping puns to each other. Roger would ask Scuba a question and Scuba would respond, "Hmm. I don't know. You've really got me stumped." And then Roger would turn to Scuba and say, "Yeah, I've just got a sinking feeling about that."

At least now I know where the bilge pump is.