An oil change that led to a life change
Issue 108: May/June 2016
The convergence of boat and boat owner is serendipitous. We expect the new owner to find the boat; sometimes the boat finds the new owner. My first boat found me far from any shore or tendril of sea while I was stranded in the scuffed linoleum lobby of a company famous for changing the oil in your car in a “Jiffy” fashion. In retrospect, the subtle portents of nefarious workings were auspiciously present, but when you fall off the cliff, you never stop in free fall to question the view.
Maintenance of my car was first on my list of errands, during which I planned to catch up on a pile of delinquent paperwork. The parking lot was empty as I arrived for my appointment. Signing the requisite waiver, retrieving my briefcase, and surrendering my car keys to the yawning attendant, I took refuge in the empty waiting room and planted myself into a seat of my choosing.
Ten minutes into my ascent on the mountain of papers before me, my sanctuary was shattered by the tinkling of the tiny bell that announced the opening of the waiting room door. From the periphery of my vision, I saw an elderly man enter the waiting room. I was instantly annoyed. Ignoring all the empty seats, he slowly shuffled the length of the room and sat adjacent to my fortress of papers. I made every effort to look busy. He was unfazed.
“Hello, my name is George.” He offered his right hand.
“I’m John.” My hands stayed with the pen and papers on my lap, eyes forward.
“Nice day isn’t it?” His hand remained in midair. I sighed and shook his wizened hand. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Yup.” I went back to my stack of papers.
Then, studying my shoes, he asked, “Do you sail, John?”
“Well . . . a little. I mean, I used to . . . as a kid.” I was caught off guard.
The cast
A long pause ensued, which I mistakenly took as my conquest of the encounter, then George launched into a monologue about life with a boat. He spoke eloquently of boat design and the logic of sheer, draft, and beam. He discussed the lessons of heavy weather and the value of keeping faith with your vessel. He boasted of raising two boys and bestowing his love of boats onto them while teaching them mastery of their skills. He joked of the power of “benevolent neglect” — allowing his sons to make their own mistakes within the safety of his presence without hovering over them — and fondly recalled circumnavigating with his young family while watching his boys grow stronger and wiser at sea.
I was drawn in. All thought of conquering my pile of papers evaporated.
George was impossible to dislike. Suddenly, setting my papers aside didn’t seem like a tumultuous loss. I stuffed the entire stack into my briefcase and gave him my full attention. He stared at me for moment before speaking, then leaned in and lowered his voice as if asking a secret.
The bait
“Do you have a boat?” His gray eyes locked onto me.
I admitted that I had never owned a boat, but dreamed of someday buying one.
“You need to have a boat.” George’s gaze drifted out the window. “In fact, you need to have my boat.”
I glanced to see if the mechanic had forgotten us.
“I have a pretty little boat.” He paused to clear his throat. “But I’m not able to give her the attention she deserves.” George gave me a sidewise glance and winked, “Mabel thinks I should give up the boat. She worries about me.”
I didn’t comment.
“I suppose it’s time,” George continued, “that my boat found a new fella to take care of her. I’d let her go to the right man for a good price.”
I was rescued by the mechanic coming into the waiting room to inform me that my car was off the rack and ready to drive away. Standing, I began to say good-bye. George fumbled for a card.
“Don’t decide right now, just think about it.” He slipped the card in my shirt pocket. “Give me a call and I’ll show you the boat.”
George wouldn’t let me leave without getting my number and for some reason I gave it.
“Give me a call,” was the last thing I heard as the waiting room door closed behind me. Driving away, I congratulated myself for not letting a crazy old man dump his derelict boat onto me.
The play
A week went by and I had forgotten about the encounter. Then my phone rang. It was George.
“You haven’t called,” he admonished. I made up an excuse about being too busy.
“When do you want to come down to see the boat?” George was adamant if nothing else.
I protested. George persisted. Learning the boat was not far from my office, I gave in and accepted his invitation to meet him that afternoon. The sooner I got this over with, the better.
George and Mabel had a beautiful home overlooking the Severn River, not far from Chesapeake Bay. The walls were covered with photos and memories of a life well lived. Mabel offered me a frosty iced tea. The boat was docked behind their house. I walked in back expecting to find a derelict, but she turned out to be a beautifully maintained and shipshape 30-foot sloop. Her varnished brightwork and polished bronze reflected George’s love and attention to detail.
“What about the cost?”
George tossed out a number that piqued my interest.
Reeled in
“Where would I keep her?”
George insisted she could stay at their dock for free.
I was out of arguments; the deal was too sweet to pass up. We shook hands and I wrote a check for less money than I would have paid for a two-week stay in the Bahamas. I had just purchased my first boat.
We spent that summer sailing around the Chesapeake as George introduced me to the nuances of my new boat. George was a patient teacher. He would finesse the tiller while I manhandled the sails. He never usurped my ownership or questioned my choice of destinations. We were a perfect team. Not only was I learning to sail, I was having fun. George even continued to maintain her brightwork and kept her bronze “spit polished” as an unexpected benefit of keeping the boat behind his house. I had fallen into the boat deal of a lifetime.
The good student
It was a cold October night when the phone rang. The tone in Mabel’s voice was bothersome. I glanced at the clock; it was three in the morning.
“George is missing,” she said, “and the boat is gone.”
Surfacing slowly from my deep sleep, it dawned on me what she was suggesting. I tried to assuage her fear and told her I’d come right over. Throwing on a sweater and coat to fend off the fall chill, I drove to George and Mabel’s home.
Mabel answered the doorbell on the first ring. She was visibly frightened. Taking her trembling hands, I assisted her to the couch and asked if she had called the authorities. She admitted that she had and they promised to start looking for George at first light. I reminded her that George was no fool or beginner.
“It’s going to be all right,” I heard myself say. She just stared at me.
I asked if I could borrow their little runabout to look for George. She nodded her head and smiled weakly.
Grabbing the keys from the boathouse, I checked the fuel and running lights as George had taught me and motored out onto dark waters. Following the shoreline, I peeked into the bays and inlets close to the house. Buttoning my coat tightly against the cold, I continued to putter, keeping the flashlight sweeping to and fro, afraid of returning without George. An hour later, I spotted the boat ensconced in the deeper recesses of a gunkhole where the surrounding trees offered protection from the wind.
Dousing the flashlight, I coasted to a crawl. I made out a shape huddled in the cockpit. Remembering George’s tutelage, I killed the outboard and ghosted forward, approaching the sailboat, in George’s words, “no faster than I would want to ram her.” Reaching out, I grabbed the caprail without bumping the two boats. I would make George proud.
“Ahoy, mate.” I tried to sound as casual as I could. He turned and smiled, his comb-over standing straight up in the wind.
“Hello, John.” And then with an impish grin, “What are you doing out this time of night?”
“Looking for you, George. Mabel’s worried. Are you OK?”
“Poor Mabel!” he lamented, “I give her such grief.” He pointed to the bow, “I couldn’t raise the anchor, it’s stuck. I wanted to be back in bed before she noticed I was gone.”
We stared at each other for long time. Teacher and student.
“I just had to take the old girl out one last time,” George admitted. “Just by myself. You understand.” It was not a question.
I nodded.
Jumping aboard, I went to the foredeck to wrestle with the anchor and eventually succeeded in breaking it loose and bringing it aboard. Returning to the runabout, I started the outboard and shouted over the noise of the engine, “I’ll tow you back home.” George didn’t argue.
Mabel was standing on the dock when we arrived. She never spoke a word. Gathering her composure, she slipped her arm tightly round George’s waist. I slipped the lines around the dock cleats. Together they walked slowly back to the house.
“Don’t forget to call the authorities,” but they were already inside and closing the door behind them. I got back to my home just after sunrise.
Epilogue
Mabel called to tell me that George had passed peacefully in his sleep. She had made arrangements to scatter his ashes over his beloved Chesapeake. Their sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren were coming from the West Coast to help. She asked if I could attend the ceremony. I said I would. Politely, she asked if I could remove the sailboat from their dock; it pained her to see it. Within a couple days, I arranged for other dockage. When I stopped by to take the boat away for the last time, Mabel hugged me and offered me an iced tea.
Going down to the dock, I checked the batteries, all the fluids, and the seacocks. I started the engine and studied the wind direction. Slowly, I motored away from Mabel’s view. Alone on my boat for the first time, I was flooded with memories of my departed friend and mentor. Pointing into the wind, I killed the engine and raised the sail as George had taught me and sailed out to deeper waters . . . far away from shore where I knew no one could see my tears.
John Cruz and Ivy Kudo met, married, and sailed from Hawaii 20 years ago. Pausing periodically to repad the cruising kitty, they have cruised both coasts of North and Central America on their 47-foot Stevens Custom, Ruby Slippers. They cruised Tahiti last year and have since returned to Hawaii where they are hatching plans for a Pacific circumnavigation. John swears this tale is at least half true. He just embellished it a bit.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
