You know what I talk about with my therapist? This damned boat.
That’s insane, right? Don’t I have some childhood trauma I should be working through? Some relationship problems or work stress or body image issues? Of course I do.
But I also have anxiety. And nothing kicks up my anxiety like launching the boat. If you’ve ever owned a boat, you know what I’m talking about. When you put an engine and a bunch of electrical components in a 4,000 lb fiberglass shell and then put it in the WATER, there are a lot of things that can go wrong.
Also, there’s wind, and other people, and currents, and seagulls, and geese, and idiots who don’t know how to read a ‘no wake’ sign and FLOOD YOUR DAMNED BOAT.
If you really want to be entertained, just look up “Boating Fails’ on YouTube. It’s a rabbit hole that will keep you saying, “Holy shit…” for hours.
We’re approaching a decade of boat ownership, and in that time, I think we’ve had six or seven seasons with a usable boat. We’ve had at least two years where the boat was in the shop for the whole season. We’ve had blown engines and messed up wiring. We’ve had smashed props and rotting floorboards and we’ve been dead in the water. We’ve sent people into the lake to PULL THE BOAT AWAY FROM THE ROCKS! We’ve had helpful strangers tow us to shore with a ski rope, and we’ve helped a stranded teen get his boat back to his family on shore. We’ve gotten the ski rope sucked into the jet engine. We’ve gotten stuck in a shallow spot in the lake and literally had to get out and push. We’ve had a dead engine and almost crashed into a stranger’s dock. We’ve actually crashed into the dock. We’ve pulled the trailer out of the water, only to realize that the boat was so crooked that we couldn’t drive it. We’ve been driving down the highway when the boat cover shredded and peeled off like a banana peel.
In our second season, we were pulling into the boat slip. I jumped off the boat to get on the dock and tie off… but I misjudged. I pushed the boat away from the dock with my feet and landed in the water. Jack was convinced he would hit me and be either widowed or divorced, depending on my injuries. He threw the boat into reverse, and avoided hitting me by a margin of about four inches.
*****
So why do we continue to do this to ourselves? To be honest, we’re seriously talking about selling it. And yet…
It’s also joyful and magical. It’s relaxation and play. It’s hilarity as my kids taunt my husband from the tube and he whips them around the side of the boat while they laugh their asses off. It’s the wind blowing in my face and the music in the background and the cool spray of the water on my toes in the bow. It’s the shock of jumping into a cool lake and the friendship and the sunshine. It’s something that the whole family loves to do. It’s swimming and feeding the ducks and flying over the water just a little too fast in the straightaways. It’s watching little kids grinning with pride as they steer from someone’s lap.
I mean, seriously. Boating is freaking fabulous.
Every time we get back on the water, we reconsider the idea of selling the boat, because we love it so much. We’re boat people, dammit!
*****
My sister did something pretty cool. She joined one of those boating clubs. So she doesn’t have the responsibility of OWNING the boat; she just walks onto the dock, jumps in the rental, and turns the key. No launching the boat, no worries about mechanical problems, no fear that the next incident could wipe out your savings. Sounds great, right?
But still. She’s got some stories of her own. A freak storm that almost capsized the boat. A broken awning. A busted gas gauge, a boat dead in the water, more people swimming to push a boat with no power. A helpful stranger. A long jog back to the dock.
Ask any boater; they’ve got a story to tell. There’s no way to avoid it. The water is unpredictable and boating requires a combination of luck and skill. Success is never guaranteed.
*****
It’s quite a metaphor for life, isn’t it? You could stay on shore. You could avoid the risk; play it safe. But then you miss the thrill. You miss the chance to learn something new, challenge yourself, trust in others, make mistakes and learn from them. You miss the joy of connection and the rush of adrenaline and the total abandon of closing your eyes, feeling the wind and the water, and letting someone else drive.
So what’s my therapist’s advice?
Breathe. Practice being the captain so you feel more competent and less reliant on others. Breathe. Remember that other boaters are kind and helpful. Breathe. Think about all the times something has gone wrong and you’ve handled it. Breathe. Feel the sunshine on your skin. Look at your competent, capable husband and trust him. Trust yourself. Trust your kids. Breathe again. Keep breathing.
And make sure you’ve got enough life jackets.
