by Fay Jacobs
The realtor caught us by surprise. "Theres a gay square dance group in town May 1st. You want a rental?"
It was waaay too soon. The thought of stuffing a whole winters debris into our owners closet and schlepping onto the boat seemed idiotic, especially with morning frost still on the boardwalk and the boat on land in a big baggie somewhere out Route 24. Besides, no way would we give up our favorite spring mornings in town.
"Theyre willing to pay a lot."
"Show me the money!" we hollered and started packing.
I confess. I wasnt as nuts this time around. Last year I stripped the place of so much stuff the apartment looked like an abandoned crack house. But now that I know the tax advantage of buying stuff for a rental, Im encouraging our tenants to break or steal things so I can buy them again this year.
With the condo secured, we arranged to do launch and drive the boat to the marina in Dewey. Our adopted son-the-actor joined us and naturally, wed picked a cold, rainy day.
With clothes, bedding and bare necessities (TV, blender, CD player) tossed aboard, we set out from Indian River to Rehoboth Bay.
At best its a dicey trip, since one narrow channel is the only route our boat with its 3-foot draft can travel. Go an inch off course, and the propeller hits bottom and gets chewed up like a spoon down a garbage disposal.
So we set out and couldnt find the channel markers; they were missing. The Delaware Coast Guard must have taken them to the dry cleaners and forgotten to pick them up.
We blundered forward in the rain and fog, with Bonnie watching the depth finder plummet to 2 feet, 5 inches. And some of that was mud.
"Go stand out front" Bonnie said to me, "maybe it will help raise the prop in the back."
Great. I can call my autobiography My Life as Ballast.
"You look like Barbara Stanwyk, heading for a Titanic life-boat," said the actor. "Are we stuck?"
"Not yet," said Captain Bonnie throttling forward into the goo and then jolting to a stop.
"Now were stuck," I said from the bow pulpit at the boats nose where Id landed from the short stop. Below me, the water was ankle deep.
The leading man joined me on my perch and we both leaned over and stared.
"Ohmigod, those are clams," he said.
Then our dog Max trotted out to join us and Bonnie hollered, "Thats it, everybody back in the cockpit."
Easy for her to say. The three of us clung to the teeny platform like survivors from the Flying Wallendas 7-man pyramid. Finally the captain had to crawl onto the deck herself, and with outstretched hands, guide the three wimps back into the boat.
"We could be stuck here all day. Call the marina and ask somebody to come get us," I suggested, thinking it a valid solution.
To Bonnie it ranked with "ask the gas station for directions" or "call Microsoft Tech support"not to be tried in the first two hours of any crisis.
"Maybe somebody will come by and tow us home," Sir Laurence Olivier wished out loud.
"There arent any other morons out here," I said, glancing at the depth finder2 feet, 3 inches. "Maybe we should just get out and walk back."
By this time Bonnie had the boat in reverse, trying to dislodge us from the muck.
"We wont be missed until Steve wonders why I didnt turn in a column this week."
"And Ive got an audition on Thursday...To Be or Not To Be..."
"Forget that. It looks like the dog is thinking, "To pee or not to pee, that is the question."
Bonnie finally had enough. "Will you two cut it out. You arent helping."
We didnt know we were supposed to.
"Just what she needs," mumbled Marlon Brando, "two sissies in the front seat giving her moral support."
With that, Bonnie gunned the engine and we shot backwards, sending everything in the boat flying. But we were afloat.
After that, I dont think the captain found the channel, as much as dug a new one.
But we got to the marina, where we immediately abandoned ship and went to Dos Locos for medicinal Margaritas.
The following Friday, we arrived back in Rehoboth and gazed longingly at our occupied condo enroute to Dewey.
Neither the weather nor the condition of the boat had improved. Gusty winds and tsunami waves rocked the marina, while the boats cabin had sheets, towels, and small appliances flung everywhere. I couldnt tell if I was home or in a Goodwill collection box.
Worse, wed forgotten to leave the fridge on. Even the sea gulls didnt want those cold cuts. I was offering up the mayonnaise for hatch caulk when I spied the note from the phone installer.
"Your phone service is working. I installed the line as far as the Rate of Demarcation Point (RDP) near the marina. If you have any questions call 227-whatever."
I had a question. If my phone service was on and I was paying for it, where the heck was my phone jack?
Bonnie and I went back onto the blustery pier to look for it. There was no phone jack behind our boat or anywhere between the slip and the parking lot. As we lay on our bellies searching for under-dock wiring we wondered if Natalie Wood had been looking for her phone jack when she went down.
Wind howling around me, I called Bell Atlantic from the pay phone.
"What problem are you reporting?"
"I cant find the phone."
That stopped the conversation.
I explained that Id expected to find a phone jack installed on my dock. Then I read the woman the message about the RDP.
"What does RDP stand for?" she asked me.
"Really damned pissed?"
"What? I cant hear you. Youll have to speak up."
"You cant hear me because Im outside at a pay phone, were having a cyclone and I cant find my f-ing telephone." We both started to laugh and she assured me that the installer would arrive the next day.
Back in the boat, Bonnie, Max and I huddled for warmth as we surfed off to sleep, dreaming of lucky square dancers doesy-doeing back to a warm condo which wasnt pitching and rolling.
By morning we dragged ourselves out of berth, threw on crumpled clothes and drove to Dream Cafe for breakfast.
Anne Marie took one look at us and said, "Whoa. Rough night?"
"First night on the boat," Bonnie grunted. "We have renters."
With that, a gaggle of women in fringed shirts and cowboy boots came in. One couple asked another, "Hows the place youre staying?"
"Great," said a rested-looking woman. "Its a beach block condoreal homeynot stripped down like lots of rentals."
Bonnie poked me in the ribs and winked.
So we slunk off to await the phone man and clean our floating house.
This weekend the weathers great! We just phoned in our pizza order and the dock party begins any minute. Pity the poor renters with their parking tickets and kids screaming for T-shirts and Thrasherswhile we sit here watching a gorgeous sunset and thinking of all the tax deductions were going to buy for the condo come fall.
Home sweet boat.
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5/30/97 Issue. Copyright 1997 by CAMP Rehoboth, Inc. All rights reserved.