Learning The Hard Way

The propeller lasted four days.

It was brand new.

So was the 6hp white outboard mounted on the back of Contemplation. I had waited weeks for it to arrive, admired it like a gardener admiring the first bloom of the season.

Mostly, I learned reverse.

Or rather, I learned what happens when you don't.

I had just backed out of the slip when the tiller line slipped quietly overboard. Before I realized what had happened, it wrapped itself tightly around the propeller.

The motor was running.

The boat was not responding.

At first, I couldn't understand why.

I tried forward.

Nothing.

Reverse.

Nothing.

The boat drifted.

Within moments, I was heading toward the neighboring restaurant dock with no way to control my direction.

Somehow, the bow of Contemplation ended up between two pilings.

It was not where I intended to be, but it was the safest place I could have landed.

I waved down a couple who were leaving the dock and threw them a line. They helped secure the boat before I shut off the engine and took a breath.

One of them had a pocketknife.

I borrowed it, tilted the outboard up, climbed down onto the swim ladder, and leaned out as far as I could, cutting away the line choking the propeller.

I remember two thoughts competing for my attention.

Please let the motor still be okay.

Please don't let anyone notice how little I know.

Eventually, the last piece of line came free.

The motor started.

I eased Contemplation back to the dock, tied her up, and sat there for a moment, wet and exhausted — equal parts relieved and embarrassed.

Later, I learned I had been shifting between forward and reverse too quickly, not giving the gears enough time to engage.

No one had ever shown me.

The truth is, I am afraid to take Contemplation back out.

But fear has a strange way of working. It can make you want to walk away, or it can make you more determined.

Instead of putting her away, I am getting her ready to go back out on the water.

The propeller will be replaced. The new sail will finally be raised. The new bimini will go on, and fresh cockpit cushions will be sewn. The old sail cover will become the pattern for a new one.

I am getting her ready. (Read about my summer boat projects here.)

And maybe, in the process, I am getting myself ready too.

This summer has not unfolded quite the way I imagined.

Instead of long days on the water, exploring new places and learning the hidden corners of the bays, I have spent more time beside the boat than aboard her.

In the garden, the preparation always takes longer than the moment of bloom.

Boats may be the same.

Before there are distant coves, there are dock lines.

Before confidence comes, there are mistakes.

And before the wind carries you somewhere new, you have to learn how to get yourself home.

By mid-August, I'll hitch Contemplation to the truck again, launch her into the bay, and almost certainly make another rookie mistake.

Hopefully not the same one twice.

And if I do?

Well...

I'm learning.

The hard way.

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