part 8

Until this point in time, I felt heavily the weight of our predicament but had managed to stay collected; confident that survival was still within our reach. I could see the shore only another 200 feet or so away but, as the boat quickly filled with water and began its decent, doubts and questions about my swimming abilities arose in my mind and I felt my confidence in survival begin to wane. I became particularly anxious when I heard Joe frantically call out that he didn’t know how to swim. “Why, I asked myself, did he wait until now to bring that up?”

The facts of what rapidly transpired in the next minute or two are not really clear in my mind. I’m sure that, at the moment, my mental processes were preoccupied by fear. What is clear today is that what happened was nothing short of a miracle.

I’m pretty sure that Joe’s announcement caused me to finally give in to panic because I believed that it was very likely that Joe was going to perish that day. I felt like my swimming skills were probably good enough for me to save myself but I knew that I didn’t have the training or stamina to save myself and Joe. I also feared that my valiant lifesaving attempt would most likely cause the loss of my own life. I was faced with making a quick and dreadfully mature and consequential decision.

In those fleeting few seconds of terror, my life began to pass before my eyes (as folklore testifies) and I reflected on the opportunities I had had to learn better swimming skills. Most recently; just that past summer at Boy Scout camp on Wallowa Lake, I had declined to sign up for any waterfront instruction. The water was so cold it was all I could do to pass the qualifying swim test. There was no way that I could persuade myself to want to return and willingly get in that frigid water again. If someone had told me then that it might have made the difference between my best friend’s life and death, I would have done it. At least, in those fleeting few seconds of terror, I wished that I had done it.

I suppose that I could turn this into an incredibly believable Hollywood epic screenplay (as believable as all of their screenplays are) by elaborating on how a porpoise miraculously came out of nowhere and scooped Joe up and towed him to shore. Or, maybe a fisherman’s boat suddenly appeared at the last moment. Or, Joe’s dad had coincidentally installed floats on his airplane and swooped out of the sky to save his son. But, what really happened, though equally miraculous, wasn’t nearly so dramatic.

As the boat went under I felt a natural inclination to take a stroke or two in an effort to escape the area and avoid becoming entangled in loose canvas. I looked for Joe and saw him a ways off, thrashing his arms and pleading for help. I stopped and treaded water in a vertical position while I pondered what I was going to have to do. Joe was, by now, choking and gasping for breath. I can only imagine the depth of helpless despair and the breadth of fear that he must have been suffering in those moments as he fought with the realization that these were his last. I know that I agonized at the prospect of watching him drown and knew that I didn’t have a strong enough character to cold-heartedly abandon him in his need. I felt my decision process leaning toward dying together rather than having to live with myself knowing that I didn’t even try.

It was while I was floating there that it happened. I expected to see him, at any second, go under for the last time. I kicked my legs such as to put myself into a swimming posture that would take me to Joe’s aid and I thought that I felt something beneath my feet. I extended my legs out straight and, to my surprise, (and huge relief) I found myself standing in water, chin deep! With only seconds to spare I propelled myself to Joe’s side and felt his trembling arms wrap around me in a death grip. Had the water been as deep as we assumed that it was, there would have been no way to have freed myself from his grasp and he would have taken me down with him.

I had to yell at him to penetrate his hysteria and get him to comprehend that all was well and that we weren’t going to die after all. With both of us now standing, we made our way together toward shore. I say together because Joe refused to let go of me until we arrived into knee deep water.

We sat together on the shore waiting for our composure to return. Words weren’t necessary. Tearful gratitude and indebtedness were thick in the air between us as we savored the sweet fragrance of each life sustaining breath we inhaled. Besides, expressions of gratitude weren’t applicable. I didn’t really save Joe’s life. One… I was there and, two… Joe was there, but it was the third element that saved us both. We were either lucky or blessed, depending on your definition and based on your source of faith. As for me, I don’t accept that it was luck because I don’t believe in it.

Finally, I heard Joe mutter, “We gotta get the canvas off that boat or my stepdad will make me wish I had drowned today!”

In all of these years, the ramifications and humbling significance of this experience has never occurred to me until writing this story. I now have a better understanding of my empathetic nature… … Life is just too short and too precious to waste it caught up in ourselves.

Interlude

Author’s note…
It has come to my attention that there may be some discrepancies or inaccuracies in the facts of these recollections. After some 45 plus years since their occurrences, I’ll admit that my memory has a tendency to let me down a bit. I know that these events happened and that most of them involved other people. The shortcomings of my mental diary may have caused a mix-up concerning the locations of which events that involved what person. Add to that the fact that these were adolescent experiences now recounted through an adult’s perspective with a more mature interpretation and, the others who were there might be left wondering why their recollection is different than mine. In other words; I may not have precisely told my friend “not to dawdle too long lest he sink and be lost at sea” but, had I been 59 years old on that day, I surely would have.

Anyway… back to the story!

Part 7

Fortunately, the day started out relatively calm and, with the lack of much wave action on the water, the absence of reserve buoyancy was not brought to our attention as an issue of concern. Despite our youthful vigor, it was slow going. We were getting a practical lesson on why boats tend to have a pointy front end! As a result of the arduous trek to the reservoir combined with the boat’s enthusiastic reluctance to move forward through the water, we tired of paddling and took a break about midway across.

Amazingly enough, the canvas appeared to be doing its job as the boat’s floorboards were still, for the most part, dry. We did notice that the action of the water against the hull had begun to loosen the folds and the canvas was now starting to bulge inward through the spaces between the boards. We amused ourselves for a considerable time by playing “squishy toes” with the numerous canvas protuberances that were forming. This distraction caused us to lose our attention to the environment around us until we noticed that waves were beginning to wash over the sides. The wind had begun to pick up and the calm, serene lake had taken on a new, menacing look.

It wasn’t difficult even for 14 year old boys to conclude that we might be in trouble if a storm was brewing in which case standing on shore had a much greater appeal to our vulnerabilities. A quick survey revealed that we were as far away as we could get from each and every shore-side haven of safety so instinct told us that the prudent thing to do was to return to where we had departed… and to get there as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, our departure spot was precisely the direction from where the wind was originating, putting it right on our nose. After 5 minutes of hard paddling we could tell that we were not making much progress and compounding our problem was the fact that paddling into the wind caused the waves to splash against the square bow, which offered just the boost they needed to facilitate invading the boat.

I looked Joe in the eye as he looked in mine and I could discern genuine fear as I’m sure he saw in mine. In those few seconds, self-chastisement passed through my mind as I realized that again I had failed to secure my mother’s approval and again I was in trouble. Even worse, she didn’t know where I was and if I never came home they wouldn’t know where to start looking. Determination to survive displaced my natural yearning to panic and knowing that somebody needed to take charge and since I was the experienced sailor I ordered, “Let’s go the other direction!” Rather than turn the whole boat we simply swung ourselves around on the thwart and started paddling downwind. I guess that was the genius of that design… interchangeable bows.

We paddled for a few minutes and could detect good progress albeit in the wrong direction and then it occurred to me out-loud, “Why are we working so hard when the wind is blowing? Take off your shirt, Joe!”

In a flash, I had mine off and demonstrated what I had in mind. We threaded the body of our T-shirts over the paddles with one handle running out through each sleeve, one shirt above the other. We each held our spar vertically presenting the shirts unfurled against the wind like a square rigger and we soon found ourselves clipping along at a good pace.

At some point still a ways from shore a particularly big gust of wind threatened to topple our masts so to counteract the increased forward pressure and to take advantage of the extra speed it might contribute, we instinctively put our feet up against the forward bow to gain leverage. This, we quickly discovered, was the wrong thing to do as it created a suicide fulcrum that forced the bow to nose down which scooped even more liquid ballast into our keel. I’m sure by now that at least one of the two of us was wishing he had thought to bring a bucket. I guess that sometimes it’s possible to incite a jinx by not installing a bilge pump.

Having precious little room for any additional weight onboard and the presence of a quickly rising internal water level threw a scare into Joe that caused him to jump to his knees and begin frantically scooping water over the side with his hands. The problem was that the location of the thwart forced Joe to kneel ahead of the fulcrum and the added weight forward again dipped the bow and all the internal water came rushing to the lowest point. The combined consequences of those two actions and their obedience to the principles of gravity began an irreversible and unrecoverable chain reaction.

We were going down!

(Continued... be patient Charisa, the next one is the harrowing conclusion!)

Part 6

As the summer came to a close, preparations began for the start of a new school year. Being industriously preoccupied with my flourishing paper route business and the purchase of school clothes and supplies, the summer got away from me and I knew that my next boat-building venture would probably have to wait until the following spring. That’s not to say that I would stop thinking about it. With the beginning of school came a happy reunion with the library and frequent trips there continued to nurture my dreams and fortify my knowledge. I rarely wasted much time doing actual school studies in study hall. Instead, I doodled and sketched various angles and views of an assortment of potential hull shapes that I thought might be seaworthy.

With this new school year came a new friendship. Joe had moved into town at the close of summer and lived only a few blocks from my home. He was an adventurous boy who often shared stories about his “real” dad who lived in Montpelier, Idaho. His dad owned an airplane and when Joe went to live with him for the summer, they would spend many hours together exploring Bear Lake and the Utah Rockies by air. Joe bragged that his dad often let him fly the plane, even landing it once. As all boys seem to have to do, I established my own credibility by equally stretching the truth about the infinite success of my boatbuilding and sailing adventures on the mighty Snake River. Through Joe, I developed an intrigue for flight, which has never left me. Through me, Joe developed an intrigue for boating and soon embarked on his own boatbuilding project.

He invited me over after school one evening to inspect the product of his boat shop. It had a rectangular shape with square corners… about 3 feet wide by about 5 feet long. The sides were straight, up and down and fore and aft and approximately 14 inches high. The bottom of the hull was flat until it approached the bow and stern wherein it took off upward at a 45 degree angle to intersect with the deck. My first impression was that it resembled a cement mixing box. It reminded me of the boat pictured in this posting’s leading graphic portraying Pogo’s preferred water transport. Pogo was a newspaper cartoon strip that older readers might recall.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pogo_(comics)
Maybe that’s where Joe got his inspiration. At any rate, it was a boat and as such it deserved respect and nobility and I was careful to neither criticize nor joke about its appearance. It was built of 1X6 material and it appeared that his lumber supply was insufficient and to stretch the number of boards to complete the project, he had left huge gaps between each board. I felt a reminiscent cringe begin to creep up my spine as I reflected on water’s vindictive need to invade displaced areas.

When I tactfully pointed out that it was likely to leak somewhat, he informed me that that was the reason he had invited me over. Given my vast experience and knowledgeable background in the boating field, he was hoping I might have some suggestions. “How much are you willing to spend,” I asked? “How much are you willing to lend me,” he countered?

Having established that this project had a budget of $0.00, we began snooping around in his stepfather’s garage for any possible solution. I spotted what appeared to be a folded tarp on a shelf beneath some boxes of storage. After wrestling it down, we opened it up and found it to be, for the most part, of good integrity, lacking holes or tears, however a bit large for our needs. To avoid getting into trouble with his stepfather, instead of cutting it to fit, we set the hull atop the tarp and carefully folded it up and over the gunwales (pronounced “gunnels” to rhyme with “tunnels”) and stuffed the excess inside the boat. By making tidy darts in the folds, we managed to keep an overall tight and neat appearance... sort of like wrapping a Christmas gift.

I should point out that this tarp was not like what you might be imagining. This time in history preceded the invention of the lightweight “blue” plastic tarps that are so abundantly available to this generation. This was back in the old days when tarps were “real”… a manly style of heavy-duty woven canvas that was heavily reinforced along the edges and in the corners. It was surrounded by huge industrial strength bronze grommets and, as was customary in those days, it had been thickly saturated in an oily water-proofing solution to make it repel paints or water or any other moisture which it might be guarding against. What I’m trying to say is; this tarp was heavy! It probably weighed as much or more than the lumber used in the construction of the boat. The fact that there was probably twice as much as we needed was no help in economizing the weight.

With a minimum number of shingle nails, we tacked the boat skin in place along the top edge of the gunwales (did you pronounce it right?) until we were satisfied that it would stay in place. We parted company after finalizing the time and itinerary of the test launch.

Bright and early on the following Saturday, we met at Joe’s house. The plan was to carry the boat by hand over a 3 mile trek to the reservoir on the outskirts of town. We had traversed this trail numerous times by bike and were confident that it wouldn’t be impossible to do… at least, until we tried to pick the boat up. An alternate plan was necessary and easily accomplished. Joe borrowed his little brother’s wagon and we loaded it on and headed down the road. We traded off the job of pulling, while the other steadied and pushed.

Hiking those 3 miles that day was further and steeper than it had ever been before. Frequent stops for rejuvenation prolonged the hike to cover the space of 3 hours but eventually water was in sight. Exhausted, we rested on the bank and surveyed the expanse before us.

In writing this, I revisited the reservoir via Google Earth for the purpose of determining exactly how much area the lake was comprised of. As we sat there that day contemplating crossing to the other side, to our youthful eyes the far shore seemed to be a distant ocean away. In reality and to my memory’s surprise, it is considerably less than a mile at its widest point… but a healthy crossing nonetheless.

Eventually, our strength returned and we busied ourselves unloading and preparing the boat for the voyage. Joe produced two paddles from inside the boat that I hadn’t noticed before… probably on account of the heaps of canvas hiding their presence. The handles were made of 2X2 lumber and the blades were small pieces of plywood nailed at the bottom. He had also installed a thwart amidships by nailing a 2X4 atop the gunwales that spanned the width of the boat. This would allow us to sit side by side and propel ourselves through the water. It appeared that he had thought of everything except a bucket for bailing… undoubtedly our juvenile optimism prevented thoughts of its eventual need from occurring. After all… who wants to jinx a boat by installing a bilge pump? As it turned out, a leaky hull was the least of our problems!

We pushed, pulled, and prodded with all our might to drag the boat from the wagon to the water’s edge. As it entered the shallow depths, we expected the load to become easier but instead, the mud seemed to grab and hold the boat to the bottom. Undaunted, we continued on while I remember thinking, “How much more water is it going to take to make this thing float?”

Finally, we felt the boat moving freely from the clutches of the lakebed but Joe pointed out that there were only about 7 inches of freeboard left and we hadn’t even boarded yet. I took the opportunity to expound eloquently on the principles of how the center of balance needed to be low in the keel, which makes the boat more stable. Weight equates to depth, which in turn must equate to stability. By the time that we had boarded, it was obvious that our keel had plenty of depth but I’m not sure that our center of balance was located in the area that the theories of my eloquently expounded principles were recommending.

With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this but, in my defense I’ll again use my age as my excuse by pointing out that I had only barely turned 14 and how youthful vigor and enthusiasm has a propensity to interfere with sound reasoning. This prevented us from donning appropriate safety gear such as lifejackets. Of course in those days, I don’t believe that there were any lifejacket laws on the books yet. I suppose that the authorities assumed that such laws shouldn’t be necessary since anybody with an ounce of brains would never even consider going out on the water without appropriate floatation or other rescue devises close at hand. Now that I think about it, throughout all of my teenage boating escapades, with the exception of the few times that I water skied, I never owned or wore a lifejacket until I was married with children and finally recognized the fragility and profundity of life. I suppose that I owe a Hail Mary or two since the only way that I could have possibly survived my teenage years was through the good graces of Deity alone.

But, I digress…

With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water.

Part 5

After the successful first launching and several weeks later at a scout troop meeting, the activity on the agenda was to plan a campout for the upcoming weekend. One of the boys was moving to Boise, Idaho and this outing would be a sort of “farewell tribute” to him. The first item of planning was to choose a location. I immediately raised my hand and suggested that, because of its nice grassy areas to pitch a tent and excellent facilities with plenty of water close by, Fish Hook State Park might be a nice place to camp. I lobbied that there were lots of places to hike and explore and a clean swimming area if the weather was warm… “Oh, and, I have this nice sailboat we could take along too!”

The scoutmaster raised his eyebrows when he heard that but, because of the overwhelming excitement and unanimously enthusiastic endorsement by the rest of the boys, he knew that, short of instigating martial law, he was powerless to steer the process of location-selection in a more conservative direction. He was out-voted and I got my way! I was going sailing again.

In preparing the boat for this campout, one of the improvements I made to its design to facilitate the emptying process was the installation of a drain hole at the stern. I found a cork in mother’s nick-knack drawer and drilled a slightly smaller hole so the cork would fit snuggly and be sure to keep water out… probably a mute concern given the fact that water was so readily able to get in through so many other locations.

At the campout, the boat was a huge social success and it was nice to have so many willing helpers to lift the bow for me after each trans-swimming-area crossing. We managed to keep the boat in a constant portage mode throughout the day as I tried to make sure that everyone who wanted a turn got his chance. Also, the day offered ample opportunities for me to practice all of the various points of sail and by evening I had mastered the ability to navigate where ever I wanted to go, upwind or downwind.

I noticed as the day progressed that the “farewell boy” had developed a keen affection for my little ship and the mysteries of sailing. Also, I recognized that any future pleasure to be had from this vessel was going to come at a huge cost and I had begun to tire of the constant need to accommodate the boats unquenchable efforts to ingest every ounce of water that the river had to offer. I was already mentally toying with bigger and better hull design solutions so, as the campout dwindled to a close and we began packing for the return trip, I had a conversation with Farewell Boy wherein I offered the boat to him (minus the sail) as a parting gesture of friendship. I had another plan in mind for the sail that required that I keep it. This, I was only willing to do if he promised to take good care of her. I could tell by the gleam in his eyes that she was going to a good home and after only using her twice I set my beloved “first born” free into the cruising world to fare for herself while plying the waters of the greater Boise area. I somehow doubt that she did as much plying as she did diving!

Part 4

Note: I have worked for days trying to figure out how to make this graphic but it has posponed this posting long enough. You get it as is! Hopefully, time and experience will bring about improvement.

Launch day was late in the summer season and the weather was bright, sunny, and clear. We secured the board and spars on top of the car and mother drove us to Fish Hook State Park on the Snake River. It lies about 10 miles upstream from the convergence of the Snake and Columbia rivers and is part of the reservoir formed behind Ice Harbor Dam. We had picnicked there before and we knew that the wind could, at times, be quite nasty. To a seasoned sailor, that might be the formula for a perfect day but, because of our total lack of experience, we prayed for a docile, gentle breeze and we found the conditions that day to be an answer to our prayers. Another secret prayer that I carried was that we be spared of any onlookers. I didn’t want to be the entertainment of the day… the crowd pleaser or the focus of attention. If things went awry and my little boat tipped over and promptly sank on her virgin voyage, I wanted to enjoy heartbreak, not ridicule. There were a few people there but I was so focused I don’t know if they even looked at us.

We removed the boat from the top of the car and placed it into the water in the swimming area, which approximated the size of a football field. I knew that it was shallow there and if the boat floundered, I had better odds of surviving. So far, so good. To check its buoyancy, I straddled it and paddled myself around a bit, close to shore. It easily supported my weight and again, so far so good, and my reservations began to fade. Next, one of us clipped on the muslin and stepped the mast while the other busied himself with the center board and rudder. There was just enough air to ruffle the sail and I gingerly sat myself on top of the board. I rocked it to and fro to confirm one more time that it had at least some reserve buoyancy then gave a tug on the mainsheet and off I went. I could hardly believe that I was actually moving across the water. As though by magic… with no expenditure of energy on my part (except for the heavy palpitations of my heart) and with complete directional control, I slipped quietly to the other side of the swimming area. When I saw the water begin to shallow, I jumped off to save a grounding of the center board and manually turned the boat around in the opposite direction and repeated the previous performance.

I was elated at the success of this experiment. It was one of those moments in life when you know that you have finally found your purpose… the planets have aligned in your behalf… your confidence builds and the realization sets in that you can, after all, do whatever you set your mind upon. It was like that day in gym class when I stood trembling and doubtful, looking up at the top of the dangling rope suspended from the ceiling of the gym. It looked so far up there. “There’s no way I can climb that high,” I thought to myself. Coach egged me on encouragingly, “You can do it, but you’ll never know until you try.” I’ll never forget the cheers and applause from the other boys in the class when I touched the ceiling. It was nice to have my accomplishment acknowledged but the feeling of pride in my chest of self-worth and triumph came back to me in that moment when I sat spellbound, feeling my creation carrying me under my command quietly and resolutely across the water’s surface. It was poetry in motion. It was the beginning of something big.

As I neared my starting point I began to detect a certain tippiness in the boats attitude and her performance was becoming impaired and sluggish. Thinking that perhaps I had snagged something on the centerboard or rudder, we attempted to lift the boat onto the shore to clear the obstruction. It had become so heavy, we could hardly lift it. Ok. My vision of success and grandeur began to fade. What saved my pride was the fact that this occurrence was somewhat anticipated… almost predicted. It was the one vital contingency of the design that would define the parameters of victory or failure, and it was the one vital element of the construction process that had been the hardest to solve. Our application of tar as a sealant had only slowed, at the very best, the ingress of water. In all likelihood, the buoyancy of the wood was all that was keeping me afloat!

I uttered an exclamation of despair at this new finding but my now 100% supportive, enthused, convinced, and believing friend would not allow his spirits to be dampened by this minor inconvenience. Besides, it was his turn to go sailing so we muscled the stern as far as possible into thin water then together we hefted the bow as high as we could. With the bow pointed up, we laughed when we saw the amount of water that was beginning to escape. We could easily determine the receding level of the internal water as the leaks dried up and stopped one by one down the sides of the boat. In our defense, draining the boat was a slow process and it took a while until we determined that the boat was again light enough to endure another crossing of the swimming area.

We reassembled the rig and I cautioned my friend not to dawdle too long lest he sink and be lost at sea, and off he went. While watching him cross, I again assessed, with swelling satisfaction and pride, the accomplishments of that day. It was the beginning of my destiny and one of those “first days of the rest of my life” kind of days and I knew that I was going to have to make many more trips across until I was quenched… or waterlogged, whichever came first.

As it turned out, I didn’t have the chance to get quenched or waterlogged that day. We got to the point that, after pointing the bow to the clouds so many times, I just didn’t have the strength to do it anymore and we had to quit. My arms ached for days but my enthusiasm and appetite were begging for more.