Too wet for the tower so we decided to mess about in boats. Makes sense when you think about it.
The idea was to get my boat to the ‘grid’. We wanted to get it ‘on the grid’ (never satisfied, eh? On? Off? There’s no pleasing these two!). This marine grid, however, is in the lagoon and about two feet higher than the drying beach. ‘Getting it on the hard’ is the proper expression but political correctness has diminished that term’s common usage. So, now we are just trying to ‘get it on’, utilizing an old hippy phrase that has legs. So to speak.
If you put the boat ‘over’ the grid and you do it early, you just have to sit there waiting for the tide. But this man waits for no tide. So, I planned it perfectly: wait till the tide is just a smidge higher than what the boat needs to float, position it just over the grid and then wait for a mere three or four minutes while it settles on the retreating waters. Efficient, what?
Like so many of my lazy-bone plans, I missed the right level by a minute or two. Timing is everything if you are lazy. But I had missed the tide by just enough that I thought I could make it still. So I revved up the motor and, with the bow lifting under the thrust, I tried to straddle the prone and horizontal legs of the barely submerged grid. Got stuck half way. Bow in the air, transom sinking and me not knowing what to do next (feelings: all too familiar), I watched in horror as my precious liquid (seawater) drained away. Sal, of course, was nice and dry in her boat giving me advice and admonishment for being a doofus. Timing is everything. A safe distance doesn’t hurt, either.
She is always there at times like these. It’s uncanny. If she didn’t forewarn me and have ‘I told you so’ at her disposal, she is there at the time of the calamity and has, “What a doofus!” to use instead. It’s comforting, in a way. You know, someone there to witness your humiliation and to console you? Make you feel better. Ya know?
So, I did what any man would do – admitted my error and jumped in the water. With my weight out of the boat and a few well placed shoulder-heaves (nudge, nudge), it slipped back to it’s floating position and, I sensed, it was not just a little amused at our reversal of roles. We were both wet from the plimsoll line down, but it was a feeling I had tried to avoid.
“Never mind,” I said to my grinning nautical critic in the boat nearby filled to the brim with dogs, “I’ll do it tomorrow. Should be a peace of cake then. This was just a practice run, really.”
“Practicing wading, are we?” she said. She is not that good at consoling.