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By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer
I stood on the little island, enjoying the calls of the ducks, the chatter of a squirrel, and the far-off hoot of a single owl. The morning was crisp, but not frigid. The sun broke through the trees, dappling the brown tannin water. I knelt to finish setting the last of my beaver traps, wondering what was missing.
Then I realized – the only thing I didn’t hear was the sound of my boat scrubbing against the bank.
I was marooned.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Boats and I rarely get along.
In this case, the johnboat had only drifted across the creek, then downstream. I managed to get it almost back to the bank with a heavy stick and a long rope, but lost my balance in the process. After nearly taking an unwanted but probably badly-needed bath in the canal, I was on my way home, only an hour or so behind schedule.
It wasn’t the first time a boat left me high and dry.
I actually have two boats, although only one is in the yard. One is a Currie Long Creek boat in need of some epoxy and paint, and the other is a classic little aluminum skiff I haven’t brought home yet.
I’m not sure, really, if I should bring the skiff home. The previous owner gave it to me, which is always a bad sign. There’s no such thing as a free boat, unless it’s cursed.
You see, the sides are loose from the frame, a lasting testimony to how the previous owner shared my lack of luck but not a lack of love for watercraft.
The boat was damaged when he and some friends were hauling in the largest load of fish since the disciples were still in that business. Indeed, it was only through divine intervention that they made it back to the bank, since my friend stomped a hole in the boat.
Well, he didn’t exactly stomp a hole in the boat. He knocked some of the hull rivets loose while trying to stomp a catfish, for reasons still unexplained. My friend missed the fish and kicked the boat – thus knocking the rivets loose and allowing more of the Cape Fear River into the boat than was outside.
I had a canoe like that once. After a spring break float trip that went horribly wrong (two tornados, briar-encrusted banks around logjams, fleas, and sub-freezing temperatures) I waited until warmer weather before I put the old canoe back in the water.
I was blissfully unaware that the plastic hull had decayed in the warming sun.
My first step into the canoe went through the bottom and into the Coharie River. The ensuing waves angered a previously unnoticed cottonmouth who was sunning himself nearby. The snake was not amused, and began heading toward me.
Naturally, I tried to escape both the snake and the boat, and just as naturally, the canoe wouldn’t turn me loose.
A pistol I just happened to have strapped to my hip just happened to go off, killing the snake. Since the fun was over, the canoe then released me. Not wanting the canoe to hurt anyone else, I emptied my pistol into the canoe as it drifted away and slowly sank.
But it didn’t die.
Months later, a fellow river rat told me about a yellow canoe he’d found with a hole in the bottom and several bullet holes in the sides. He carefully patched the “Banana Boat,” as he called it. On its inaugural cruise, he made it to the widest and deepest part of the river before the patches gave way and he was swimming.
But for bad luck boats, nothing compares to my first one.
The boat was christened the AC by my girlfriend of the time; never mind what the initials stood for. If you read Revelation, you’ll get the idea.
One was never bored aboard the AC. I never took that boat out without experiencing an adventure.
For instance, there was the time a propeller shaft snapped as the sun was going down and the tide was going out.
My fishing buddy, Joe, was much more boat-educated than I was, so I asked Joe what we should do.
Standing in chest deep water, watching the shrimp boats turn on their lights in the sunset, Joe looked at the broken shaft and shrugged.
“I think unrestrained panic would be in order,” he said.
That problem was eventually fixed, but it wasn’t be the last time a boat left me all wet. Was there room, I could fill these pages with misadventures involving watercraft.
Don’t get me wrong. I love boats of all sizes. Some of my most treasured memories were created on the waters of creeks, ponds, rivers and sounds. Spotting a whale from shore is nothing compared to seeing one roll past you just a few yards away. You can’t help but feel closer to God when you see a living, breathing creature half-again as large as the boat in which you are standing.
Just make sure that, as you admire that incredible beast, your boating companions have more experience and better luck than mine.
And make darn sure you have a rope, and a good-sized stick.
Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter. He may be reached via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz, or via telephone at 642-4104, ext 227.
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