The Maiden Voyage, Smooth Sailing Optional

My humble apologies to the boating bureaucracy of Ohio. In my last post I rashly libeled the public servants, not realizing they, in their infinite wisdom, were actually only looking out for my mental and physical well being. What they were in fact, telling me was that if I was going to buy an 8 1/2 foot "inflatable" boat for use on public lakes, I might just as well just give the state some money too. Either that or just burn it. I'm not sure if they meant for me to just burn my money or the boat. Probably they meant both. If I had just burned the boat I would have saved a lot of time, heartache and money.

I blame myself however, because I should know by now that my attempting anything remotely requiring mechanical or technical skills is masochistic at best. To make such attempts without adequate instructions is equivalent to suicide by covering myself in molasses and staking myself to an anthill. But such is my fixation with my latest addiction. Now a certifiable fishing junkie thanks to Lake Templane and Larry Livingston, I have become a fishing snob (only bass will satisfy my angling desires, ok, maybe walleye as well, and the perch, my God, the perch!), I need a smallish boat for the inland lakes and resevoirs where the bass are generally found. Along comes Sevylor with their inexpensive (cheap) inflatable boats and the means of achieving my rush suddenly became doable. Not only do I have a delivery system (hypodermic) for my "drug" but I can even speed the rush with an "optional" 12 volt, electric motor. There is also the optional foot pump (for inflation), optional battery and optional oars (in case the motor accidently fails). That seems a lot of "options" for a quiet neighborhood! Too bad they don't carry optional common sense! Strike One!

As I mentioned previously, I purchased this craft "gently" used. When I was told by the seller that it was being sold because the little old lady (that only drove it to church on Sundays) had trouble getting in and out of the craft, I assumed that was because of her advanced years. Wrong octagenarian breath. I found this out on the maiden voyage at a place called the "East Branch Reservoir" located in Middlefield, Ohio. East Branch supplies the water for all of Akron so logically no gas motors are allowed. Only electric motors, oars and idiotic sailors are permitted.

Once I got my used boat home I decided, in a rare fit of planning, to try out the foot pump that, according to the good folks at Sevylor, would have the craft fully inflated within nanoseconds. Ha ha, those guys at Sevylor sure are funny. After approximately 3 days of painful toil with pump the raft was actually about 1/10 inflated. I perceptively grasped that I was going to need an "optional" electric pump to get the boat fully inflated within my actual lifetime. And of course, since few of the facilities have actual electricity within miles of the actual lakes and ponds, I was going to need an "optional" converter so I could power the electric pump within several miles of the actual lake. I did not however realize the need for a converter until after I tried it out at East Branch, where they had a picnic pavilion in the same area code as the lake. Sooooooooo, after getting the boat inflated, which, only took a couple of minutes I had to carry the thing the 1,200 miles to shore of the reservoir. Strike Two!

Now, comes the funny part. I don't believe you've actually lived until you've seen some 56 year old moron trekking through the woods, toward the lake with a fully inflated boat on top of his bald head, which is the only conceivable way it could be carried as it had all the portability of Yankee Stadium. Also, since the outer shell of the boat completely covered my head, I had fantastic view of my feet, and that was all I could see. So here I am staggering and weaving down a dirt drive, a fully inflated raft perched atop me so that I looked like someone at a football game who wears one of those oversized foamy cowboy hats that look so stupid. Multiply that by 10,000. On the bright side, I was able to determine that I have what appears to be a bunion cropping up on my right big toe. You wouldn't think I could have topped that sight, eh. You would be an idiot.

After finally getting to the lake, it only took a couple of hours to get the rest of my crap to the "launch" area, and get it loaded onto the boat. And, being such a large vessel, there was enough room for all my gear, plus a place for me to actually sit, roughly the size of a major postage stamp. But I squeezed in with the oars, and motor and tackle box and fishing pole and I set off from the shore. And I set off from the shore. And I set off from the shore. I spent several hours trying to push myself off the sandy bottom of the near shore with my hands, feet, oars and several tree branches. So before I had gotten 10 feet from shore, I had lost about 20 pounds of water weight.

Now without getting into theories of the physics of buoyancy and water displacement, the best way of visualizing the scene (now with me on top of the boat) is an illustration. Picture a paper plate wafting on the calm aqua water. Now drop a bowling ball on top. You get the idea.

Still, it gets better. While I struggle with figuring out how to use the oars, it's the damndest thing, when you pull the left oar the boat goes right and vice versa. By the way, I'm using the oars because I am trying to conserve some power in the motor's battery, which lasts, as I now know about 12 seconds. I finally get some semblance of control over the boat's manual propulsion system when I start to notice a suspiciously cold, wet feeling creeping up my legs until my khaki shorts, with my wallet, car keys with "optional" electric door opener and my cell phone feel like I am in New Orleans after Katrina. Only wetter. Low and behold, and surprise surprise, I have sprung a leak somewhere on my "gently" used craft. Imagine that! So, I spend the next hour rowing back to shore to try and find the problem, or to end it all by self immolation. Once ashore, I quickly located the problem, someone had neglected to close the cover seal of one of the valves on the boat's underside. Those damn SOBs at the yacht club, that's the last time I trust them with my "pleasure" craft.

I get the valve sealed and am now getting the hang of rowing (in a fairly straight line), I get out about 50 yards from shore and am able to concentrate some on why I came here. To get a vicious sunburn. No seriously I got my rod out of the "optional" rod holder and proceeded to try casting for the big ones. I had maybe 3 casts under my belt, when I realized that the shoreline was getting smaller, and smaller and the next thing I know, I am in the middle of the reservoir. Evidently smaller craft drift quickly in these parts. Not to worry, I have my handy dandy, trusty 12 volt "optional" battery and instead of killing myself with paddling, I will just cruise on into the shore for some more angling. It is now that I discover that the motor on the back of the boat functions essentially the same as oars do in terms of navigational direction. You steer in the opposite direction of where you want to go. Now that may sound simple enough, but between climbing over all the junk, squatting down in the rear (I think it's called the stern) and trying to watch where I'm driving, I am swerving across the water like Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. Only drunker. At one point I was oversteering so badly I was literally just going in tiny circles. With all this extra territory I was covering I found my battery starting to flag about 60 miles from shore.

However, I finally did limp into the area with a small cove for getting boats, (REAL BOATS), onto and out of the water. I rowed the last several yards and finally reached solid ground. I spent the next several weeks uninflating the boat and getting it and my gear all loaded into the car and went home to nurse my wounds and put some industrial strenth Absorbine on my entire body. Boating is apparently damn hard work! Sssssssstttttttrrrrrriiiiiiiikkkkke three, yer out!

But, I do not learn from my mistakes (I could say something really funny about marriage here, but Sandy has a vicious left hook) and am already looking forward to my next seafaring adventure. "Over the seas, let's go men, we're shovin' right off again!"

Before I go however, I am going to have several "optional" martinis.

Love
Dad