LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOUT: A Rehoboth Journal -- It was the best of boats, it was the worst of boats |
by Fay Jacobs |
Talk about change of life. Now Im homeless. Okay, Im not sleeping in a cardboard box in front of Blue Moon, but metaphorically speaking, at least as far as weekends are concerned, I am temporarily without home. It started with the new puppy. Now when people hear this news, they clear their throats and whisper "does that mean that Max....er..." No, the grand old dog is still hanging in there. In fact, we bought the puppy for Max, for company and to have somebody to boss around. Its worked out splendidlyfor Max. Its me and Bonnie whove been housebroken. The disintegration began as we headed for our first two-dog night aboard our boat in Deweywhere weve weekended for the past four summers. There was a three-hour Bay Bridge tie up. By the time we got to the marina, station wagon bulging with, among other things, puppy, puppy toys, puppy food, and, by this time, puppy poop, half of under-aged, liquored-up Dewey filled the parking lot. The crowd took turns barfing, urinating or hurling insults at these two women of a certain age trying to unpack the kennel club. Ugggghhh! With our duffels, leashes, dogs, collapsible puppy crate, milkbones, chew toys, kibble, lap top computer and provisions, we had to run the gauntlet through the parking lot fraternity boys, recreating, I suspect, the Navys Tailhook scandal. Then, dragging our brood up the pier we looked like Von Trapps climbing the Alps. Talk about fording every stream till you find your dreamrough water made the boat a moving target. Transferring life-jacketed schnauzers, our belongings, our bodies, ourselves to the boat was hair-raising business. And by the time we got the pups out of their personal flotation devices, stowed our stuff and collapsed for a breather, it was time to reverse the whole ugly process and take the boys back out for one last pee. Then, the puppy, whose name is, appropriately, Moxie, got his exercise by bouncing around the boat like a billiard ball. It begged the question, what were we thinking??? Is it any wonder that by morning, on our way for Dream Cafe bagels, we wandered into a condo open house? And, following our typical cautious, deliberate modus operandi, we signed a sales contract in the time it takes most people to select a muffin at Coffee Mill. If all goes well, by mid-August well own a tiny studio apartment overlooking Maryland and First, where I can see whos coming and going at Plumb Loco. Its double the size of the boat cabin, cups and utensils dont have to be velcroed down, and wed gladly pay the mortgage for the in-town parking spot alone. Yeah, it meant putting the boat up for sale. But heck, wed been threatening to unload our hole in the water into which we throw money for at least two years. Of course, we secretly counted on the reputation of the used boat market to save us. People make it to the top of heart transplant lists faster than they sell used boats. You can walk into Nic-a-boli on a Saturday night in August and get a table for twelve faster than you can sell a used boat. "Dont worry, Bon, well get the condo, keep advertising the boat and be in the nursing home gumming Jell-O when the damn thing sells." We had an offer in 24 hours. Do you take Dramamine for sellers remorse? When our vitals stabilized, we agreed it was for the best. "Ill miss cruising with dolphins around Cape Henlopen and taking trips to Atlantic City," said Bonnie. "Yeah, Ill miss crab pots stuck on our propeller, jellyfish sucked into the exhaust, and going to Back Porch in permanent-wrinkle clothes," I said. "On the other hand, its bye bye to fireworks on the Chesapeake, bounding out Indian River Inlet to the ocean and water gently lapping me to sleep." "And waking up to black flies and jet ski exhaust," said my spouse, adding "dont forget marina bills, mechanics bills, gas bills, and large unnumbered bills gone with the wind." "But I will miss the folks at the pier," I said, wistfully. "Yeah, and how about the drunken jailbait in the parking lot?" Bonnie said, sarcastically. As Charlie Dickens might have said, it was the best of boats, it was the worst of boats. So here I am, at 7 a.m. on the day we hand over the keys to Dave, Bay Prides new owner. We dont close on the condo for three weeks yet. Friends have rallied with heartfelt offers to put us up, but most of them also remembered a visiting cousin, or long-anticipated trip to Saskatchewan when they realized we come with a traveling circus of dogs and dog accouterments. A few hardy souls are willing to offer a homeless shelter to us anyway and to them we say "youre brave." So weve carted 6 years of boating debris to the car, folded our rainbow flag, and packed the blender; we left Dave the flyswatter, marine toilet paper and Anti-Mildew spray. And as I sit in my cozy boat, gently rocking in the slip, pecking at my laptop computer and trying to finish this column before Dave shows up, I wonder if I can really part with this boaters lifethe adventurous cruises, wonderful harbors, luscious sunsets, cocktails on board, frozen mudslides on the dock, the romance of it all... "WOOOOOF!", "Yip, Yip, Yip" Oh no. The dogs are up. "Bonnie, wake up. You get the life jackets, Ill find the leashes. Hurry! Here, grab the puppy. Ill take Max. Moxie wait! No!!! Bad puppy! Ill get the paper towels. Careful, dont let Max fall in the water...watch your step. Watch him. Watch your keys, theyre hanging out of your pocket. Here, let me help you..." Splasshhhhh!!!! I think the old adage is going to be true. The two best days in a boaters life are the day you buy it and the day you sell it. See you in town. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 10, July 31, 1998. |