You know that voice in your head? Your inner Jiminy Cricket; the one that says, take your cell phone; make sure it’s charged. I did not listen to Jiminy’s incessant chirping and found myself instead bobbing the waters of the Puget Sound in a gas flooded jet ski.
We arrived at my in-laws the Saturday afternoon of Labor Day. Within a couple of hours, I was cruising Budd Bay on their 2-stroke Skidoo. It was an exhilarating and freeing moment to myself away from children. But first I took Ivy for a quick spin, and each life jacket encrusted baby for a short putt in shallow water. Then G and I went for faster spree though the wakes until we almost ran out of fuel. I could not wait for the next liberating opportunity. When grandma and grandpa offered to take the brood to the movies the next day, I volunteered to fill the tank at the marina pump. G and I were off with instructions for mixing oil and 91 octane. After a short jaunt across choppy water, I puttered and bumped into the Boston Harbor Marina station with a little nautical help from some locals. G jumped off, located the opening opposite the oil depository and began pumping gas into our motorized sea-faring machine o’ fun.
Sitting on the skidoo I thought 13 gallons seemed like a lot of fuel for our tiny vessel. And at 30 bucks, G figured we were good to go. Wanting to ensure our oil mixture was appropriate for some recreational time on the water, we lifted the dry container to check the oil tank. A greenish broth swirled in the hull. Were we leaking seawater in? Gee that smells like gas. The thoughts I did not heed; I habitually ignore that cautious cricket. We pushed off the dock and I pressed the engine start button. Nothing happened. And as we drifted further into the harbor, the term “dead in the water” came to mind. All these nautical terms from common language came into use; ironically applied in their proper context. Recognizing the helpless look of amateurs, a patron at the pump threw us a line. Once tethered to safety we began investigating our problem. The engine was fine before we filled the tank with gas, so what was the problem now? While G checked out the oil tank, determining if our mixture was the source of our strandation, I somehow, belatedly, noticed the gas tank. After G had filled the tank I remarked it was odd that it had no lid. Shut up Jiminy. Sitting there without power I finally realized our mistake. G had poured gas into the vent instead of the actual gas tank and the vehicle was now flooded with the newly acquired 13 gallons of fuel.
Enlisting help from the station employee we realized we would have to bail the gas out of the skidoo. It was about this time that Nathan; our “I’m just trying to be helpful, not antagonize the situation” helper noticed gas leaking into the harbor. He alerted the marina owner and the gravity of our situation became more apparent. A woman from the harbor patrol came to tow us to the opposite beach in a kayak and about this time G’s cell phone battery died. Up until this point my role had been one of uninvolved observer, letting G control this situation. Once I realized this was not going to be a 20-minute trial of inconvenience, I reluctantly eased off the machine, quit ADDing over the delicate jellyfish tendril caught on the pier and inserted myself into the situation. G and the marina asshole owner were squabbling over whether or not G could siphon the gas out with a hose and a bucket. Meanwhile I got down on my hands and knees and started bailing the noxious stew out of the hull. I filled three buckets before an actual pump materialized out of the ether. Even with an oil boom soaking in the skidoo and three buckets of recovered petroleum, we still had a flood. By this time I thought to engage the onslaught of holiday harbor cruisers offering condolences to our plight into a more sensible strategy. We found a tow from the first boat owner I asked. (Later, G referred to this as my feminine charm, which I took to mean: I actually had the idea to get us out of the situation we were in and asked for some freaking help.) I realized that if we were towed to the opposite shore without a cell phone, we were in for a long disastrous day into evening away from breastfeeding babies and any hope of rescue. My in-laws lived on the East side of the bay and by car it would have taken anyone an hour to get to us. That is if they knew where to find us. Since G’s cell phone was dead it also meant we had no access to pertinent data like telephone numbers and addresses. Who the hell has a phone book anymore? Not the Boston Harbor Marina.
Precariously balanced behind the Lazy Lightening, G cursed his newfound hatred of motorized recreational watercraft. Steady at a menacing pace of 10 mph, I assured him we would not fall into the "drink" and invited him to think of this as an adventure that could have been much worse. After all we were cruising along the bay on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
What did I take home from this very convoluted story that could have been much shorter?
Here is what I had the presence of mind to think about even in the moment. As a parent, I believe irrevocably, that my actions are much more demonstrative than any one thing I can say to my children. And even without them present, I did not panic; I did not hesitate to do what I needed to do. I kept my cool and acted befitting a parental role model.
I engaged the nasty troll of the marina owner and challenged him when he was being not-at-all-helpful with his quips and criticism in an attempt to boost his own littleness. Without even raising my voice (which I do all too often to my children), I simply stated things like: I don’t think that is very helpful. We are not attempting to inflict more damage than we have already caused. I think arguing over whether or not the siphon will work is not helpful. I don’t think being an asshole is very helpful right now. And I am happy to listen to some suggestions you might have about how we might remedy this situation and be on our merry way. He said, “I like being an asshole.” I assured him he had a very large set of manly balls and he can relay our silly plight to many a captive audience once we leave, but “may we please have a bucket?” Even though I fought one brief moment of emotional tears, I found myself quite amused by the situation. And offered several apologies to Nathan who was quite helpful, sincere and not at all antagonizing as he so poignantly made a point of not being.
As soon as he realized we were being towed out of there, the marina owner wanted to know what we planned to do with all the gas and insisted we pay for the supplies needed to clean up the spill. Fair enough, it was our mistake. We paid the tab and guaranteed our swift return to collect the buckets containing gallons of gas. (Even though Nathan assured us to leave it there.) And interestingly, when G did return to accept his responsibility an hour and a half later, Mr. Asshole was attempting to sell the supposed inconvenient waste. What a snake! Good thing, being the responsible parent that I am with Jiminy serenely perched on my shoulder, I remembered to call the Coast Guard and report the rainbow slick spreading on the skim of the bay.
I've always been impressed with your ability to remain calm and collective in the face of disaster/mayhem. I have become much more so after teaching inner-city (believe me there is no way you are going to win an argument with a fiesty 15 year old female) which I think will help me be a better parent. I was amazed how calm I was when my office ceiling collapsed (once I got over my brief initial freak-out over the dogs being in there)..
Posted by: Mama Tried | September 10, 2007 at 10:26 AM