The day was hot as hell. But we were living in South
Florida, which might as well be Panama. If it’s not raining, every day is hot
as hell. But I ramble.
On this particular day, we
were out on the water. “We” being myself, my brother, and Charlie. Not in the
water, but on it. In a boat, to be precise. Putt-putt-putt.
The slowest boat known to man. 7 miles an hour at best. What that is in knots I
hadn’t the slightest idea then and not the slightest idea now.
But there we were.
Putt-putting down the Intracoastal Waterway. As to said waterway, back in 1936,
the Army Corps of Engineer cut a channel between the coast and the barrier
islands so boats didn’t ground so much anymore and shipping would be safe. This
particular boat wasn’t likely to touch bottom. Just a cheap Florida cracker
boat, not a flatboat.16-foot skiff, outboard motor.
Did it inspire me with
confidence? No. Did I fear being pitched out of that boat? Yes, on some level.
The land along either side
of the Intracoastal wasn’t built up with condos and the art of landscape
architects as it is now. More like a jungle. Not one of those Henri Rousseau
happy jungles. The terrifying variety. Crazy, dangerous tangled greenery like a
jungle in one of the Tarzan serials, only color, not black and white. It was
totally primordial, nothing but red mangroves. Prop roots bending
down into the water like bird cages from hell.
My brother had informed me
said prop roots formed a breeding ground for barracudas. Little baby barracudas hatch in there. Then come out when they’re hungry.
Teeth like razors. Shoot out like rockets and chomp into you. Eat you almost as
fast as Piranhas.
But we were moving on level
enough. It seemed an unlikely possibility.
Cheap-ass boat, but as
cheap-ass boats go, it wasn’t bad. Charlie borrowed it from the Millers,
that cracker family who’d been here since Ponce de Leon failed to find that
fountain and croaked. They ran the swing bridge up on Atlantic Boulevard. Some
yacht’d blow its air horn. They run out and crank that thing and, eventually,
let the yacht through. We were headed up to Boca Raton. Precisely why we were on that mission I do not now
recall.
Putt-putt-putt.
Charlie’d been grim looking
and flush-faced lately. Unhappy. Drinking too much. Today, for once, he had a
smile on his face. Feeling like we were a family, for once, he’s part of us,
finally, not on the outside looking in. An adult hypothesis that did not enter
my nine-year-old brain at the time. He’s
smiling for once, huh. My insights would have ended there.
“How ya doing boys” he
shouted.
“OK, I guess,” said Marion.
He was leaning out the front of the boat keeping an eye out for floating logs
for some damn reason.
“OK?” Charlie snorted. "Just OK?"
“Great sir! It’s a beautiful
day.”
“You bet your bee-hind is it
is. How ‘bout you, Terry?”
“Beautiful day, sir. I agree
with my brother on that score.”
“On that score? Too many
words, son. Speak plainly. Planning to be a writer if you grow up?”
“Maybe I will.”
Marion laughed. Charlie
laughed.
“Maybe you will at that,” he
said. “Maybe you will.”
Smiling. Charlie was. I
smiled too. Then my brother. We all sort of smiled at each other.
Had a little happy moment.
As so often happens in this life we slide through, an unhappy moment
immediately followed.
Heard this roaring noise
first.
ROOOMMMMBLARRHHHHHHHHH.
Then waves hit. Pitching up
and down like a ride at the fair.
My brother almost shot out
the front of the boat.
We’re all gripping on for
dear life thinking Dear Jesus I don’t want to die, I don’t want to drown,
what the hell’s happening?
Then I finally looked up and
saw what’s happening. A yacht. It’s some
sonofabitch in a yacht. A swell, a member of the idle rich who considered
FDR the Antichrist and took craps in a golden toilet on Key Biscayne. Just
roaring on by …
ROOOMMMMBLARRHHHHHHHHH.
We’re bucking up and down,
holding on and screaming.
Charlie starts
hollering.
“Slow down! Slow down you
sonofabitch!”
That son of a bitch was barreling
ass down the waterway. He did not slow down. No, he did not.
Sir Richie Rich Gottrocks
III got closer. Right next to us. I’d
got a look at the yacht before, but didn’t see the man. Now I did. Gritting my
teeth, holding on to the bucking boat, I looked up, and I saw him. Got one
quick glimpse of him. Sitting high and mighty in his king’s chair at the top of
his shiny white yacht.
ROOOMMMMBLARRHHHHHHHHH.
And the waves, the pitch and
yaw, the vomit-making bucking bronco ride got worse. We’re caught in his wake.
And his wake is going to kill us.
I thought I was going to
die. It’s fair to assume we all did.
Waves just crashing.
White-knuckle gripping. As bad as it could get.
I thought, well, OK, we’re undeniably going to die.
More importantly. I’m going to die. This is the end of my life. I’m nine years
old and I’m going to end my life out here in the mangroves. All the little baby
barracudas will shoot out and eat me for their supper. It is my destiny,
written at the dawn of time, to turn into barracuda crap. But that’s selfish of me to
think of just me. They’ll eat us all up. We’ll all turn into barracuda crap.
Lord Jesus forgive me for my sins. I’m a selfish rotten kid please forgive me.
Childish prayers aside, we
kept bucking up and down, up and down, and swinging back and forth.
Then finally settled down
some.
Enough for Charlie to stand
up on wobbly legs and start shaking his fist.
Charlie spoke his mind to
the yacht man.
Charlie cussed him out but
good.
“Fuck you! Go to hell and
eat shit on the way down, cocksucker! You goddamn cocksucking blueblood
bastard! You sorry bastard sonofabitch! You’re going to get us all killed with
that shit! I got kids on this boat, you cocksucker! Kids!”
Charlie shouted ‘til his
voice got hoarse.
The yacht guy just kept
going. I don’t think he heard Charlie. I don’t think the stupid bastard had any
idea what his yacht would do or had done. Either that, or he just didn’t give a
damn, which on reflection, is the more likely hypothesis. Blasting down the
Intracoastal in a state of total indifference. This is my waterway, my yacht. I’m the king of the water! You and your
chickenshit little boat have no business being here!
Such adult analysis had no
place in my childish thoughts. I was glad to be alive. Period. Amen.
My brother and I started
laughing and giggling. We weren’t dead!
Jesus. Thank you Jesus! We thought we were dead, but we didn’t die! Woooo!
Charlie wasn’t laughing.
Looking back through the admittedly distorted lens of memory, that salient fact
is clear to me now. Charlie was red-faced, frowning, hurt, boiling inside.
About 30 minutes later, some
other yacht came alongside. Not a bastard, this time. Courteous, running smooth
and slow, just coasting, boop-boop-boop. Charlie flagged him down, and he
coasted to a stop. Charlie spent near to an hour telling him about the
sonofabitch who’d almost killed us. The other yachtsman listened politely. After
a long, long time, we finally moved.
Marion and I were thinking
of a thousand other things by now. Stuff we wanted to eat, pranks to play, some
kid we knew in Boca Raton. The near-death incident was already fading in our
childish heads. We were kids. Resilient. Didn’t give a rat’s ass.
Not Charlie.
The high-hat sonofabitch in
his high-and-mighty yacht had kicked Charlie in the balls. Robbed him of his
manhood. Dissed him, as they say these days.
Charlie brooded about it for
days.
