The Family Car: The Diabolical Dinghy

I have another confession to make. I swear I haven’t made so many confessions since I graduated from the Sisters of Perpetual Punishment High School.

I can’t drive the dinghy!

No, that’s not quite right.

I WON’T DRIVE THE DINGHY!

I used to drive it. When she was brand new, I ferried our guests and Stanley, the killer bichon, to and fro from the dock and beach…all by myself.

Then she began to get fickle. She’d take you to the beach without complaint but then she’d refuse to leave. She’d start up without a whimper while tied to the side of the boat and wait until you were exactly half-way between the boat and your destination to sputter and die. You learned to rely on the kindness of strangers to get you home. You know it’s bad when you start giving a holler out to the anchorage to put the other boats on alert every time you want to leave the boat.

The straw that broke this admiral’s back came when we were clearing into beautiful Walker’s Cay, Abaco, Bahamas. She’d been acting even more temperamental than usual and refused to start unless you gave her a hard and swift kick in the gas. At which time she would roar off uncontrollably in every direction until you got her under control.

I was calmly sitting in the dinghy which was tied to the dock while the cap‘n was ashore clearing us in through Customs and Immigration.. At the time I believed I would be immediately extradited back to the U. S. if I so much as set foot on land before the cap’n got us cleared in, and it had taken us way too long to get here to risk that. Since then I have found that this practice varies from island to island (let me clarify that the law does not vary) and many times the officials don’t care…unless you get caught. Are we clear on this?

Before the Hurricanes of ‘04. Walker’s Cay was a beautiful resort area with the fishing boats moving in and out while the locals and tourists strolled about or sat talking with each other on the benches that lined the waterfront. I was busy minding my own business and pinching myself that we had finally “arrived” when suddenly a fishing boat decides he wants my spot on the dock. He was a lot bigger than me and let’s just say he wasn’t leaving any room for discussion. He assumes I can drive this dinghy…well, I’ll show him!

I deftly untie the painter and begin to glide smoothly under the dock to the space on the other side. Of course, I haven’t started the boat, I’m doing this by grabbing on to anything I can. I make it successfully to the other side and just as I’m reaching for the painter to tie her to the other side of the dock, the fingers on my other hand lose their tenuous grip on the barnacles encrusting the pilings (if you’ve read my earlier blog “The Shoes I’ve Lost and The Places I’ve Been, you know I have an affection for barnacles, including the cap’n.) and starts to drift lazily across the harbour. Lazily or not it is headed right for those aforementioned fishing boats.

I pray to the goddesses of carburetors, fuel injectors or whatever else could be the culprit to show some mercy, and give me a smooth start but they must have needed a good laugh that day.

I do everything right. I squeeze the bulb until it’s firm just like the cap’n showed me. He even made me practice multiple times, on and off the dinghy. I pull the lawnmower starter thing….sputter…sputter….silence. I give it a little more gas….splutter. …splutter….silence.

I give it a Lot More Gas.

VRROOM!

I jam it into forward. It rears back and we’re out of the gate. I’m hanging on to the painter for dear life. This pony is headed for the finish line. The only problem is the finish line is the dock. I’ve now caught the attention of the fishing boats at the dock and they are hurriedly untying their lines. The benchwarmers are jumping up running for safety.

The dock looms. I duck my head. Round and round the pilings I go. You think Kentucky Derby jockey Calvin Burel can weave in and out of tight spots, you should have seen me. Somehow I shoot through the other side with my head still intact…so I decide to use it. Why don’t I pull that nifty little safety bracelet thing the cap’n makes me wrap around my wrist, for good reason it seems. I pull, the key disengages from the switch…sputter…sputter…silence.

Yee-Haw!

So there’s the reason I wouldn’t drive the dinghy. But this year I’ve decided to face my fears and confront my demons and get back in the saddle again.

Fair Warning and I’ll give a holler out to you anytime I attempt to leave the boat.

Post Script: May 10, 2009
I did drive the dinghy this season. Only because the cap’n managed to have it both running and steering all in the same season. I will admit I didn’t drive it as often as I should have, I’m lazy and I kind of like being chauffeured. Our last day on the boat, I took the cap’n out for a last harbour cruise. He decided he kind of liked being chauffeured too. Good thing I didn’t let him get used to it.

Now the practical non-fun part of the blog. Just a few tips.

Tip 1: Get you dinghy engine serviced every year. Seem like a no-brainer, huh? The problem we were having was from varnish that had set up in our gasoline. It seems gasoline likes to clump like mascara if it sits to long. Plus we all know how kind the boating environment is to all moving parts, so keep ‘em greased.

Tip 2: Do make yourself drive the dinghy. It will give you so much more independence and enjoyment. You won’t have to listen to the cap’n grumble when he has to roll out of the cockpit to take you to the early morning yoga or pilates class or just a solitary walk on the beach. You may say this is another no-brainer, but there are a lot of admirals like me that spend years being chauffeured around and you can bet it was because of one bad incidence. For those admirals, get back in the saddle!

For those of you that have managed to read all this way. We bought another sailboat! More about that later.

Dinghy Drift Hope Town