Delusional

The apt name of this local tub perfectly captures the psyche of your average Southwest Florida boat owner.

The Punta Gorda and Port Charlotte chambers of commerce trumpet the area's virtues as a boater's paradise. They figure that, if you tell people this, they will come. And they have, thanks in part to a numbingly harsh northern winter.

Even if you aren't a boater to begin with, after settling on the banks of the Peace or Myakka rivers, Charlotte Harbor, or one of many local man-made canals, you feel obliged to become one.

This is how we became the proud owners of our own delusional craft. We optimistically planned to christen her The Whim-Sea, and she has lived up to her name. Her motor, among other features, is completely dysfunctional, and she graces our yard as a large lawn ornament that costs us an annual registration fee.

New boat owners always look like this ... at first

All this calls to mind a memorable voyage with our friends Bobby and Gilda.

Ever since I'd known Gilda, she'd been complaining about Bobby's boat--which cost nearly as much as their home--just sitting in the driveway, unlaunched and eating up insurance and registration money. It had apparently been two years since the Whiskey River had seen blue water.

One week, something snapped in Bobby. Maybe it was Gilda’s spending three days cramped up like a pretzel cleaning the boat's interior and waxing the exterior until you could see your face in it. Maybe it was the New Year coming. Maybe it was their anniversary, for which he had promised to jump in their icy swimming pool but just couldn’t bring himself to.  Maybe it was the guy who pulled up in a Mercedes and said Bobby would never be able to sell that thing. 

He decided it was time to take the Whiskey River out on the harbor.

As soon as Bill caught wind of this, he was like a kid. When we were invited on the Whiskey River's maiden voyage on Charlotte Harbor, he could hardly contain himself. 

I, in turn, began to worry about details like how I was going to get aboard. The boat on its trailer seemed nearly the height of their house.  While it was in the yard, the only way to get up there was on a rickety ladder, and I just couldn’t make it past rung 4. I'm none too confident about my body's ability to clamber up ladders and heave itself aboard boats, so I fought a tailspin of panic. I did deep breathing, visualized myself swinging aboard like a monkey, saw myself on the high seas, face into the wind. What could go wrong?

The deal, because Bobby wasn’t yet familiar with the harbor, was to have neighbors Joe and Marianne go along. Joe knows the harbor; Marianne is (as we would discover) a font of advice and good in a crisis; neither one drinks; Bobby does; and Joe could drive most of the time while Bobby had an ongoing series of beers.

By the time we were ready to roll, I had somehow wrestled down my fear of boat clambering, hopped aboard like an old salt, explored the burnished interior, and felt on top of the world. I had achieved the perfect delusional state for Florida boating.

When hitched up, the 29-foot craft towered over Bobby's SUV and loomed behind us as we lumbered the 2½ miles to the boat launch, with Marianne and Joe bringing up the rear. Bobby backed the boat onto the ramp and started slowly putting her into the water. What a moment!

Once in the water, we had a first hint that something was amiss. How would we snug her up to the dock so we could get aboard? Who had a rope? (I remained optimistically unconcerned. We would find a rope, and we would get aboard.) Indeed, someone produced a rope. It was a short rope, but it sufficed.

Then we were in the water, and we were off! Bobby began backing her out, and we seemed to be making progress. Then Marianne calmly pointed out that we were churning up some mud; a huge amount of mud, actually; the whole friggin’ harbor, in fact. So, four of us scrambled belowdecks and perched as far forward in the boat as we could, to lift the rear off the bottom.The blower alarm shrieked like a banshee the whole time, to alert us that fumes weren't being cleared from the cabin very well; reports came down from above that we didn’t seem able to move forward.

I remained optimistically delusional.

Soon, we were completely afloat, no longer stirring up the harbor floor, the alarm stopped, and we were actually moving frontways. All was well. Gilda and I broke out the bottle of Merlot she'd brought for the occasion, poured ourselves plastic cups, and toasted the launch.

At that very moment, Bobby gunned the engine. Red wine slopped all over Gilda's spotless cabin table, we scrambled for paper towels to sop it up, and, unfazed, we prepared to toast again. Now Bobby backed off suddenly and gunned her forward again. She lurched like a spooked horse. Red wine exploded all over me, the newly cleaned upholstery, and my body. I looked like a shark bite victim. But no matter.

We motored onward at the highest speed I’d ever traveled on the sea. The wake was a thing of beauty, like the flowing tail of a high-spirited white stallion.

We fished for a little over an hour. Gilda climbed up on the bow to fish. Bill sat way on the back, so that he might discreetly eliminate his beers one at a time. Thanks to the Merlot, Gilda and I both got a chance to christen the bucket in the head and toss it over the side. (“It’s like pissing on a roller coaster!” Gilda yelled.) There was much good conversation, and none of us caught a thing. I felt two “tug-tugs,” and Gilda let out two whoops because she felt the same thing--probably my line. But, hey, it isn’t about the catch, it’s about the company and the adventure of it all.

At last it was time to go home, and we started rocketing back. The sun was setting as we approached Charlotte Harbor, so we ducked into the hold to keep warm. The blower alarm had begun shrieking again because of fumes in the cabin. Still happy as a clam, I figured that, if you can smell it, you’re okay. Carbon monoxide is the odorless killer, right? When we could stand it no longer, we went topside, which might have saved our lives.

Several times as we headed back, the engine stopped entirely and we looked at one another, debating how far we felt able to swim. Yet the engine always started again.

I remained optimistic …until we got back to the dock. Two inches away from where it could easily be hooked up to the hitch, the Whiskey River gave up the goat and could go no more. I didn’t know that human beings could move a boat that large, but apparently they can, because we were able to haul it back to where Bobby could hitch it up again.

I continued to be optimistic, delighted about the whole day … right up until the moment when Bobby’s SUV let out the most godawful screech I've ever heard from a vehicle. Are the wheels spinning? What is that dragging, grinding noise? Turns out the drive shaft had snapped like a twig.

Marianne sprang into action, commanding everyone to clear out of the way, get the whole rig into a space, and leave a note to cover the boat and SUV’s imminent overnight stay in the parking lot. We all rode back to the neighborhood in Joe’s truck and went our separate, stunned ways.

Later, Bill told me that he'd gone in search of the 60-odd life jackets that Bobby had said were on board, but couldn’t find them. And Gilda allowed as how that soft spot in the cabin floor was real wet, for some reason.

I thought it might be a while before the Whiskey River went to sea again, and even longer before we went to sea on it.  But we are all so deeply delusional that we did. Bill went out on one occasion when Bobby had neither map, nor depth finder, nor GPS on board and got lost on the Gulf. On another occasion--even with GPS, maps, and depth finder in place--we went aground five times before returning to dock.

At least we found the life jackets.