Free Boat

On a Saturday in early May last spring, Jan and Stella had their 2,212,102nd argument after they pulled me out of the shed and positioned me near the ditch next to the road.

They stood there with a blank For Sale sign and a magic marker, arguing about what price they would slap on me.

Stella said, “It’s a sixty-five-year-old worn-out plywood boat. It doesn’t need TLC; it needs to be set on fire.”

Jan replied, “It’s a classic 1960 seventeen-foot Thompson with a vintage 60-horsepower Evinrude. I grew up on that boat. Our kids loved that boat. It’s worth at least four grand.

The neighbors looked up when they heard Stella’s derisive laugh.

“This thing hasn’t been in the water for 14 years. It’s more of a mouse apartment complex than a boat.”

They duked it out for twenty minutes, while the neighbors tended their gardens and listened to the battle.

Stella won her 2,212,102nd argument. She was on a 35-year log winning streak.

She said, “That’s it. It’s a free boat.”

Jan scowled as he wrote his phone number, and his hand shook while he spelled out the damn phrase on that cheap little hardware store sign. He duct taped it to my windshield.

Jan, I thought we were buddies.

My mind froze. I was now a free boat. Not a $4,000 boat not a $1,000 boat, not a $500 boat. I was a free boat—the ultimate indignity for a once proud vessel.

I sat out there in the weather by the road for a steamy, wet summer. The tires on my trailer sank into the lawn while grass grew until it touched my once pristine bottom paint.

A pair of raccoons set up housekeeping under my front deck. Those filthy ditch pandas had five kits. They stunk like old, moldy boots and made a nest with rotting grass, leaves, feathers from a dead turkey they found in the bushes, and a beach towel they pulled out of the weeds down by the river.

Jan and Stella are not marketing geniuses. At least they could have mowed the lawn under me. Now people saw my sorry self sitting among the weeds on a trailer sinking into the ooze. As a bonus, thanks to the raccoons, I smelled like the elephant house at an underfunded zoo.

Jan and Stella live on a county road; people fly by at sixty miles per hour. No one stopped to check me out.

Throughout the summer, I remembered the good times. I worried about the future, and I plummeted into a deep depression.

I recall that in 1962, Jan’s father, Stash, surprised his wife, Wendy, and their three sons when he drove me home for the first time. He had won me at the weekly poker game in the back room of the Island Tavern. The town sheriff had to sign over my title to Stash.

Wendy frowned and said, “Stash, what the hell have you done?”

He smiled, hugged her, and called out, “Boys, get out here. You’re all in trouble.”

Ten-year-old Jan came out of the house. The eight-year-old twins, Little Stash and Wally, walked around the corner of the garage. Upon seeing me, they ran over and jumped on board.

The next fifteen summers were full of fun. We explored inland lakes throughout Wisconsin. Water skiing and fishing away the years as the boy grew up, while Stash and Wendy steamed through middle age. The best times were the weeklong fishing trips on the Wisconsin River. Stash and the boys beached me on sandy islands after fishing all day. They set up camp and cooked what they caught. The next morning, they ate eggs and bacon, cleaned up in the river, pushed me off the beach, and fished until sunset. They ate lunch on another sandbar. It was all magic.

When the boys entered their later teen years, Big Stash let them take me out on their own. They still water skied and fished, but now there were girl friends and a bit of beer in the mix. I hosted many marathon make-out sessions.

One evening in July, before their senior year in college, while skinny dipping next to me, Jan and Stella sealed the deal for the first time, so to speak.

Stella, how could you propose setting me on fire?

Jan married the arsonist. They had a boy, Stashy, and a girl, Candy.

When Stashy was eight, Jan towed me to his garage, painted me yellow, and rebuilt the Evenirude. That started a whole new set of memories. However, yellow was not my first choice. We were back at it, water skiing, fishing, and camping on sandy islands. Jan and Stella would take me out on summer evenings to get away from the kids and have a cheap date.

Stella, set me on fire? What the hell!

Big Stash died a few years ago, and Wendy is in a memory care facility.

Stashy and Candy grew up. Jan and Stella grew old. I got pushed into the shed and forgotten, until Jan taped that God awful sign on me last May.

It’s now September.

A miracle just happened. A pickup pulled into Jan’s driveway. The driver’s side door had a magnetic sign that read, “Ed’s Carpentry.” A twenty-something couple got out. He was dressed in worn work jeans, old boots, and a plaid shirt. His hands were callused, and his face had a deep tan. She was in a summer dress and looked to be about 11 months pregnant. They were a beautiful young couple. As he walked around the boat, she stood in the shade with a furrowed brow and her arms crossed on top of the baby.

He walked back to her and made his case. It took a while. Eventually, they knocked on Jan’s door and pulled me out of the tall grass and into the future.

While rolling down the road, I thought, Are we having a boy or a girl? Maybe twins. Paint me any color, but not yellow.

And take that, Stella, ya pyromaniac.