Passing the Test: Male Bonding

After enjoying a scrumptious lunch on the deck - a spinach and goat feta omelet and fresh blueberries - we headed out on the lake in our pontoon boat to swim in a private cove.  The motor coughed a few times, but being an elderly (sometimes crotchety) old marine engine, we didn’t think much of it.  About a quarter of a mile from the house, the skipper said, “Maybe the engine’s only running on one cylinder?”

“Is that bad?” I asked, naively.  After all, I was only ballast.  A passenger. “Do we have a paddle?”   

“Maybe.  And no.” In typical fashion, he grinned his trademark boyish smirk that said don’t bother me with trivia.  This is high adventure.  Let’s see what happens.

I, however, was more interested in safety than adventure.  “Will we hurt the motor if we keep going? Could we both swim and pull the boat to shore if we had to? Should we head back?”

More grinning. “Nah.  We’ll be fine.  FINE!”  A few seconds later he exclaimed, “Hey, wait!  Maybe we’re out of gas!”  I rolled my eyes, as if to say wow, isn’t fuel something the skipper should check before he heads out to sea? He inspected the gauge on the tank, and sure enough, a big white “E” stared him back.  So we turned around and started home.

About 200 feet from our pier, the motor’s coughing and sputtering turned to gagging and gasping.  Suddenly the struggle terminated, and was replaced with dead silence. Funny how silence is redefined after a slow death.

A good-natured neighbor in his pontoon boat saw our predicament and offered a quick tow. Back at the pier, the skipper filled the gas tank, chuckling all the while.  I’m not sure I will ever understand how men see life as a jousting game.  You poke at circumstances and take risks for the fun of it, then relish whatever element of conquest you can muster.  It’s supposed to be exciting.   

Soon we took off again, with the cranky old motor still clanking and mis-firing.  “Not to worry,” the skipper said non-chalantly with tongue in cheek (literally).

Our swim was energizing and renewing.  To make a long story short, we returned home safely.  With the boat tied off to the pier, the skipper removed the motor's hood to discover the other reason the old geezer continued to struggle: one spark plug was crippled, charred with ugly black burn scars. 

Poor old abused motor! Starve him, disable his pulse, and expect him to keep going!  But that’s the world of men, I reminded myself. Push the limits, and see if the other guy (or machine, or power tool, or whatever) rises to the challenge. If he/it does, you’re blood brothers.  I guess today our old boat motor passed the test.