by Fay Jacobs
"Why the hell dont you write fiction?" Bonnie asked me, "then maybe these stupid things wouldnt happen to us all the time."
She had a point.
We were stranded in the middle of Rehoboth Bay with a boat full of actors and a big metal crab pot stuck to our propeller.
The boat was my cruiser Bay Pride, and the actors were a trio of performers set to perform at La Rosa Negra in Lewes at 10:30 p.m.
Wed decided to take a leisurely noon-time cruise from Indian River Inlet, up the coast (stopping to wave at Poodle Beach and North Shores), around Henlopen Light, through the canal at Lewes and back to Rehoboth Bay.
At 3:30 p.m. we were ten minutes from completing the circuitleaving plenty of time for the actors to get back to Lewes and rest up for the eveningwhen the submerged crabpot, with no warning float attached, attacked our propeller with a sickening crunch.
"Theres good news and bad news," I said. "The bad news is were dead in the water; the good news is we have a dozen free crabs."
Another crew-member, our friend Banker Woman, added, "Sure. By the time you make repairs those free crabs will cost you about a hundred bucks each."
Bonnie and I stared at the twisted metal mess behind the boat while the actors retreated to the bow to argue over whod be Ginger in our production of Gilligans Island.
"Let me take a look at the situation," said Kayak Man, the seventh passenger on this ship of fools. He offered to get into the water to survey the damage. "How deep is it here?" he asked.
"Shallow. I doubt if its over four feet," I said. "Were always running aground."
He climbed down the swim ladder and disappeared completely. Wed finally found the channel.
Bobbing for air, Kayak Man noticed that our new crabs were still very much alive. "Im not touching those things; theyre snapping at me!" crabphobic Kayak Man said, as he scrambled back into the boat.
"Hey, Fay, this will be great material for another story," somebody else said, causing me to grab my little notebook and start taking down the details.
"Put the damn book down and start flapping your arms in the distress signal for a tow," Bonnie hollered.
For a minute or two I flapped the funky chicken at passing boats, but nobody stopped. Then the actors joined me and I couldnt tell if we were calling for help or doing Hello Dolly.
I grabbed the cell phone to call the marina but realized I had no phone number. Wait a minute! Vince, The Jet Ski Man, has that big ad running in LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH! I located my stash of LETTERS, flipped to Vinces Water Sports ad, called the number and soon a rescue party was being organized.
So we waited, trying not to think of the clock ticking toward showtime.
"Have you ever been stuck before?" asked a performer.
"Once or twice," I noted.
I told of a particularly memorable incident in a cove on Chesapeake Bay. When it came time for our lesbian quartet to head back, we had a dead ignition switch, requiring a hot wire. And, loathe as I am to admit this, not one of us had this skill.
A good samaritan came along, climbed aboard, and flopped onto his back beneath the boats dashboard to play with the wires. Bonnie handed him requested tools.
"Screwdriver." She handed it over.
"Wrench." She handed it over.
"Pair of dykes."
"Excuse me?????" We looked urgently at each other, knowing we had two pair aboard, but not knowing which couple to sacrifice. The four of us clamped our mouths shut and clutched our sides to keep from exploding into hysterics.
"Dykes. You know, needle nosed pliers, have you got any?" asked the mechanic, mercifully unaware of his double entendre and ensuing commotion.
"Oh, right!!!" Bonnie said, handing him the proper instrument. Fortunately the engine turning over covered our roaring laughter.
The next day we conducted an informal tool survey to learn it wasnt a mechanics Freudian slipneedle nosed pliers really are called dykes.
"Hey, weve got a pair and a spare here," said Banker Woman, pointing at me and Bonnie, then herself.
"Are they really called that?" asked an incredulous actor. "Ive never heard of such a thing."
"I hadnt either," I said.
"Somebody was putting you on," said Kayak Man.
With that, we saw Captain K. from Rehoboth Bay Marina heading toward us in his pontoon boat. Pulling alongside, he boarded our craft, looked down at the crabpot stuck to the prop and the first thing out of his mouth was "Do you have a pair of dykes?"
"I... rest...my...case," I managed to spit before stuffing my hat in my mouth to keep from howling. Now there were seven people clutching their sides, trying not to burst out laughing.
Since the only pair of you-know-whats we had aboard were human, Captain K. towed us back to the marina for repairs. Banker Woman and the actors, late for their various chores, fled as soon as we hit terra firma.
Bonnie was about to do the butch thing and jump in the water to yank the damned crab pot off the back of her boat when Captain K directed us to stand on the bow to help lift the prop out of the water. "Womans work," Bonnie muttered.
Then, Capt. K. asked Kayak Man, who was, after all, the remaining man on the crew, to stand in the water behind the boat and do the honors withwhat elsea pair of dykes.
Kayak Man looked at me and whispered, "He wants this faggot to get into that filthy dock water and do what with what????"
Bravely, Kayak Man slipped into the water and approached the crab trap with its still-live crustaceans. He grabbed the afore-mentioned rudely-named tool, systematically whacked all 12 crabs unconscious and then followed Captain K.s instructions for cutting part of the mangled metal away and removing the propeller. Then he stood in the mucky dock water as half the marina gathered round to help peel the wire off the miraculously undamaged boat part.
In a second burst of machismo, Kayak Man followed Captain Ks directions, reinstalled the propeller and triumphantly waved his pair of dykes in the air. Our hero.
So the actors made it on stage in time, wed demonstrated that LETTERS FROM CAMP was indispensable, the boat seemed no worse for wear, and we all proved what wed surely suspected: you never know when a pair of dykes will come in real handy.
As for Kayak Man, he was humble about his accomplishments. In fact, he offered absolutely no warranty, implied or otherwise, on his mechanical services. Well let you know.
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7/11/97 Issue. Copyright 1997 by CAMP Rehoboth, Inc. All rights reserved.