Looking Out: Mutiny on the SS Jim's Dad's Boat
My cousin, Mr. Bill, and I are putt-putting away from the dock in an aluminum rowboat with a 3-horsepower Evinrude engine. He is 12, and I am 13. We had argued about who would be in the stern.
Commanding the boat is not all sunshine and roses. Bilge water, tainted by mud, dead nightcrawlers, spilled gasoline and oil, collects around the operator’s feet. The blades of the two long oars are a hazard when the guy in the bow is deliberately making them bang around.
There I sit, wearing a bathing suit, T-shirt and big, puffy, orange life jacket. My hand is on the tiller of the little motor. I am happy to be the oily footed captain of the ship. Mr. Bill’s only responsibility is to scowl at me as we glide across the lake.
As Mr. Bill and I were a few minutes ago readying our ship, I used the maturity gambit I had learned from my brother.
“I’m driving,” I announce. “I’m older.”
“First of all, it is called taking the helm, not driving,” scoffs Mr. Bill. “Second, we’re the same age, almost. Third, my dad is a real Navy captain. I’m taking the helm.”
“Are not. It’s my dad’s boat,” I whine.
“Your dad told me he wants me to take charge,” says Mr. Bill.
He is lying. I struggle to form a logical argument. Inspiration!
“WOW!” I say. “Look at that girl on the dock! Zowie!”
Mr. Bill nearly breaks his neck, snapping his head around to see my mythical mermaid.
This gives me just enough time to jump into the stern of the boat and give the rope a tug to start the motor.
“Your skullduggery is shameful! I protest most vigorously,” says Mr. Bill, who even at age-12 wields his impressive vocabulary like a lance in a jousting duel.
“Nyah, nyah,” I counter, articulately as we head into deeper water.
Now in the bow, Mr. Bill grabs the ends of the oars, pinned to their locks on the gunnels. He begins banging on my shins with the blades of the oars.
Never mess with the helmsman. I tug the tiller rapidly left and right, causing the bow of the boat to lunge side to side. Mr. Bill bounces around, lucky to be wearing his own puffy, orange life jacket. He drops the ends of the oars.
“Mutiny!” I say. “I’m heading for the sandbar. I’m going to leave you to starve to death.”
“Fiddlesticks,” says Mr. Bill. “I’ll swim back and tell your mother.”
Stalemate.
We continue our voyage, peacefully.
“Only the gurgling murmur of the engine and the tintinnabulation of the aluminum hull disturbs our irenic cruise,” says Mr. Bill.
“Huh?” I say, digging deeply into my own vocabulary.
“Enjoy the scenery,” he says. “O Captain, My Captain.”
I begin to enjoy the sights. A few sailboats, a fishing boat here and there, houses along the shoreline. It is very nice.
My gaze is drawn to the empty middle thwart.
A big firecracker rests on the middle of the aluminum seat. The hissing, flaming fuse grows ever nearer the business end.
I look at my feet, deep in dirty water coated with rainbow hues from the oil and — GASOLINE!
Over the side I go, knocking one oar into the water. The boat curves away.
Mr. Bill calmly grabs the firecracker and throws it into the water. He clambers to the stern to take command.
The firecracker, having a waterproof fuse, explodes, spraying me with water and fogging my vision with smoke.
The swim back to the dock takes a few minutes, but I’m happy. I’m happy because I know he’s almost out of gas and will have to row the boat with one oar.
Nyah, nyah.
Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.
This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Jim Whitehouse: Mutiny on the SS Jim's Dad's Boat
