Nancy Williams: Not a fan of boats, I was surprised by pontoon paradise

When I was a little girl, my dad had a boat. Shiny, glossy wood boat with a motor attached. I don’t remember much about it except that he was so excited to get the boat, and that then he was always working on it, trying to get the motor to run. First time I went fishing with him (cane pole) I sat in the boat which wouldn’t start. It was tied on a long rope so we could float far out into the lake. With my fishing line baited and dropped into the water, I waited to be told what to do next. But that was it, I was doing it.

We had packed sandwiches. Which I didn’t want, because of the splotches of dried worm blood on my hands. Dad was happy as could be and grinned like crazy. I grinned back over the strapped-on, puffy, old-timey, orange life jacket that rose from my shoulder halfway up my ear. It smelled less than stellar, like every other part of fishing.

I didn’t understand the glee of it all, but since dad was so pleased, I played along. Until the finning. Finning is when a fish spreads its fish plumage, by raising its top fin, which is sharp and has needle-like spines, into your fingers.

After being in the sun in the floating boat for quite a while, we went back to the shade of the shore and fished from there. I caught a small bream, and when I grabbed it to take it off the hook, it finned me. I yelped and threw it to the ground. No longer polite and passive about fishing, I said what I had to say. I don’t like this. Too much blood is involved. The blood of the worm, the fish, and me. I busied myself the rest of the afternoon making bandages for my cut fingers from leaves and grass. Much more down my alley.

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One other time, I agreed to go fishing with dad as a tag-along. To help tote and carry things. It seemed at least 85% of fishing is packing up gear and hauling it here and there.

When we’d lugged most of the fishing equipment from the car, Dad baited his fancy rod and reel fishing pole and propped it against a rock several feet from the water’s edge.  (A rod and reel pole is the big time to a cane pole fisher girl.) Then Dad went back to the car to bring one more thing down to our spot. He told me to keep an eye on the pole. I said OK. When he left me, the pole up-propped itself and headed toward the water. Dragged by a fish into the lake. Fast and without fanfare. That’s when Dad decided I wasn’t such a good fishing partner.

In my young adult years, my boat experiences were limited. One time I rode in the front bench seat of a fast boat on the intercostal waterway and was nearly beat to death by the boat lunging and plunging up and down on the waves. Like a long ride on The Scrambler at a carnival. The next day I was full-body bruised like I’d been thrown repeatedly against the side of a boat. Because I had been.

Another experience was sailing with a group of friends on a big boat on Lake Lanier. “Sailing with a group of friends” sounds so glamorous and fun. And it probably would have been if I hadn’t been green as Kermit the whole time. I thought I was going to die from my severe, hours-long motion sickness, and frankly, wanted to.

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My friends from college live in Franklin now and they have a boat. A pontoon to be exact. For years they’ve said, we have to get you out on the boat. I’d smile agreeably and think, Nah, I’m good. Harboring memories of fish smells and sitting in the hot sun in Dad’s boat that wouldn’t start, bruises from being banged up by waves crashing a boat, and motion sickness Dramamine wouldn’t touch. Nope, can’t go on your boat with you.

Eventually, I ran out of excuses and in a weak moment agreed to go with them to their lake. True to my prior experiences of going to the lake, river, ocean, or any other body of water, it took about a lifetime to get there. Packing. Planning. Driving. Finding parking. Hauling paraphernalia down to the water. Coolers and bags of food, bottled water and towels and speakers and floatation devices, and bug spray. Sigh. Not sure it’s worth all this.

We eventually finished loading up the car, unloading the car, then loading up the pontoon and headed out onto the lake. Where my opinion of being on the lake changed 100%.

Sitting in the sun, with the wind in your hair. Riding around a big lake, surrounded by close mountains and sky is incredible. Pontoon paradise. I remember thinking, “I honestly think this must be what heaven is like.” Eternity on a pontoon boat.

After a perfect afternoon on the lake, I came home a tad sunburned, happy as could be. My non-lake friends were surprised by the change in lake attitude. They asked me what do you do on a boat for so long. Hmm. … Rode around, pulled into a cove and jumped in then floated around on noodles. Rode around some more, pulled into another cove, and ate. Looked at `the eclectic floating cabins and houseboats in the water and picked one out for each of us.

We talked in spurts, however, also had long silences. Just riding. I put on my sunscreen, which is baby oil. Received frowns from all and dermatology warnings. We swapped stories about recent travel, our grown kids, jobs, retirement, depression, duty to serve others, songs of the '80s, recipes, selfishness, housecleaning, sourwood honey, church as a way of life instead of pew time, social media, and fruit. We waved huge “hello” waves at others we passed, close or far away. And big waves were always returned. We took turns driving the boat, which in open water, only means holding the steering wheel.

Plenty of people lazing around without a boat too. Floating simply with inner tubes and surfboards and each other.

Earlier I wasn’t sure all the prep and toting was worth it. Now I’m a convert. Yes, yes, yes. It’s worth it!

Part of the fun of the experience is the people you are with, the food, and what you’re getting away from by going to the lake. But more than anything, it’s the magic of our mountain lakes. Fontana, Chatuge, Santeetlah, Glenville, Toxaway. Where the mountains go all the way to the water. The best of it isn’t merely driving by, but getting in and being part of it.

This is the opinion of Nancy Williams, the coordinator of professional education at UNC Asheville. Contact her at nwilliam@unca.edu.

This article originally appeared on Asheville Citizen Times: Nancy Williams: No fan of boats, I was surprised by pontoon paradise