| |
Oooops!
There were two gentlemen
always racing about from the dock by the old Bayview Hotel. They had small
aluminum boats outfitted with racing type engines. One was named Brownie.
His boat was almost always a shade faster. It was called "The Silver
Slipper." It was silver and reminded me of a fast mosquito flying
across the water.
If you had seen and remember these gentlemen, Brownie’s advesary
was Walt, my hero. His boat was an Arkansas Traveler so close in design
and color to my own, that the engines appeared to be their only difference.
With a boat so close in looks to mine it allowed second fastest on the
Pond to be more than adequate in my mind. (If you saw me, I was the well
tanned, toe-headed kid hanging around hoping for a ride. Random thought:
It seems unfair that the 4,000-pound, 1978 Cruiser's Inc. cuddy cabin
day cruiser that I now use could pass those two speed demons of my past
like they were standing still.)
I was privileged to have the use of a boat and motor since the late 40's.
It started with my grandfather's Arkansas Traveler, a 12-foot, V- bottomed
aluminum boat powered by a Johnson 2 horsepower engine. It was not very
fast, but for a boy who may have been 80 pounds soaking wet, it was the
Indy 500. Soon my grandfather added a powerful 5 horsepower Elgin. Not
as dependable, but again as fast.
The 12-foot boat was really too small for a family outing and soon my
grandfather purchased a new 10-horsepower Johnson and a 16-foot molded
plywood Whirlwind boat. He did not trade the Arkansas Traveler. I found
out years later he had given it to my dad so that when he wanted to go
for a ride, he would not have to wait for me to return from where ever
I was. We were both happy.
My dad did not boat much and I was limited only by my ability to obtain
gas and oil. I was strong enough to pull up the boat at night, remove
the engine with the carrier, and return all essentials to the boathouse.
The next morning I was capable of having the proper life saving equipment,
mixing the proper gas and oil, and knowing to fasten and chain and lock
on the engine. (I was often reminded of the chaining operation). When
underway, I knew the rules of the road. I was aware of the shallows and
most other obstacles in the Pond. I was also adept at checking to see
that the water pump was functional and backing down the engine when the
telltale change in engine pitch indicated weeds were on the prop.
True to its reputation, the 5-horsepower Elgin died one day and it was
a long row from the beach. My dad was handy with engines. He shortly diagnosed
at least one bad coil, probably two. The following weekend we returned
with two new coils, new points, plugs and a pledge from me to do a few
chores. Then my dad went to work. Within a few hours, he removed the engine,
replaced the above parts, greased and cleaned the engine. He placed the
engine back on the boat and when started, it purred like a kitten. I could
hear the sound of power that was missing before and could not wait to
take it on a run across the lake. I was immediately told that the mechanic
had the honor of checking it out.
As he pulled away from the dock I could see and hear the difference. I
turned to go back up to the camp. I knew it would be a while before he
returned. I was just stepping off the dock when the engine sound changed
drastically. I turned and saw my dad standing, then fooling with the anchor,
then playing with an oar (like it was a gun and he was shooting at something
in the water).
Minutes later he started rowing back to the dock. At first, I was afraid
that the repair needed repair. Then I thought he was pretending. When
he was within a hundred yards I knew that he had lost the engine. I was
devastated, he was angry. When he had tried to drop the anchor it was
knotted and would not reach the bottom. He used the oar to try and get
a position by visually sighting in both directions. This was only partially
accurate because the boat was drifting from a brisk wind.
I bore the brunt of his anger. To him, it was me who had knotted the line
(not), me who had broken the coils (not), and probably me who caused the
brisk wind (also not). As he was telling me that this was the end of my
"boating career", and that rowing was better for me anyway,
I heard my great aunt behind me. "Bernard, you stop right now. How
many times have I listened to you and Les tell this boy to chain that
motor? Did you chain it?
My dad was silent.
We didn't speak of the motor for a week. The following week there were
two young fellows with a hand pump and diving suit over the approximate
location where the motor disappeared. After the day's dive they informed
us that it was so mucky below that even if you could see down there, anything
that heavy would have sunk into the muck. They stepped around the bottom,
trying to feel for the motor, but after getting stuck themselves and then
pulled free from above a few times, they said it was too dangerous. We
were all disappointed.
The following week I had a new 7 horsepower Elgin. I also was never again
reminded to make sure I chained my engine. Life at Sandy Pond was once
again great.
At a little get-together just before Dad's death, we talked about old
times. He told the story of the lost motor and how he had been so ashamed
and embarrassed that he had contemplated not returning to Sandy Pond.
We all agreed that it was good that he returned.
PS: That 12-foot Arkansas Traveler is today owned by a close friend and
rests beside a small creek waiting for my friend to return and challenge
the fish near Gouverneur, NY. He insisted on paying me $100 – which
is more than my grandfather paid some 60 years ago.
Bernie
Carr now has his own website: www.sandypondny.com
|
|
