#58 - Waterskiing Down by the Sea Shore
Some years ago, we just happened by my friend, Lincoln’s, house in Friendship on a hot afternoon. He was preparing to go waterskiing. I use the word, "preparing," loosely; he was sitting in a lawn chair drinking beer and thinking about going water skiing. It sounded good to me, so I sat down in the chair next to him to help.
After a while, we headed down to the shore in our bathing suits. The skis and the rest of the gear were already in the boat. It was a small, heavily built wooden skiff, reincarnated after years stored in an old barn. It had been scraped and newly painted - a reddish color as I recall, with buff on the inside. On the transom was a large and ancient-looking motor, painted silver, and the size of it indicated there would be no lack of horsepower. Knowing its owner, I knew there was probably plenty to spare. His passion for giving new life to tired and forgotten equipment and machines bordered on the maniacal, and the exercise we were about to launch into, I was convinced, was as much a sea trial for his old boat and motor, in his mind, as it was to be a test of our waterskiing prowess.
Several aspiring skiers along with onlookers thronged on the shore as the two of us climbed in the boat. Each participant took a turn donning the freezing, wet, orange life jacket and waded out through the rocks and seaweed to catch hold of the tow rope. Each, as well, was bombarded with lots of helpful tips on what to do. But even the most knowledgeable tipster, I noticed, proved surprisingly inept when his turn came around. He shivered his way into the elusive, floating skis, grabbed the tow rope handle and finally wobbled up to the classic waterskier’s stoop when that spirited red boat leapt into action with a roar.
An hour or more went by. Each of us had had his fill of being yanked off the shore to slalom around and through just about every lobster pot buoy in the bay. Lincoln, though, the owner and operator of that spirited craft, had not yet taken his turn, and he decided he was going to give it a whirl. He clambered out of the boat and waded in to the shore. I was the designated driver for this next event.
Looking completely at home in his element, I couldn't help feeling we were about to witness a memorable performance. Built something like the proverbial brick shithouse from hefting all those antique engines all his life, Lincoln only added to his bulk by buckling on one of those oversized Coast Guard life jackets that would easily fill a fish basket. Next, he stepped adeptly into the rubber foot pockets on his skis and expertly shuffled into waist-deep water with the grace of a walrus, grabbing up the tow rope handle as I tossed it to him. No hesitation, no fanfare, no foul-ups. "Ready!" he said. "No matter what happens, give’er full power and for chrissakes don't let off!"
"Okay, " I said, and with that I idled out to take up the slack in the rope. He looked ready, so I sat down and braced myself. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the throttle and jammed it forward into the wide-open position. Holy cow, what a lurch!
The stern of that boat hunkered down and the tow rope snapped rigid as it learned the meaning of "Full Power" for the first time that afternoon. What did Lincoln do? He grimaced masterfully, almost in control of his skis, but instead of rising up on them quickly the way most experts do, he began to sink deeper and deeper into the water until he actually disappeared below the surface.
"No matter what happens!" he had said, so I kept her wide open, guessing that this was normal for him. That ancient, silver engine roared and churned and smoked, the whole boat trembling till I thought the planks would part, and the tow rope vibrated like piano wire with the strain. We didn’t seem to be moving – maybe a sluggish few feet. But I did my duty and kept that throttle wide open. Still no sign of him. . . . It seemed way too long . . . way, way too long!
Then we began to move, just a bit at first, as though we were snagged . . . just brief lurches forward. Very gradually though, as we gathered a little speed, two ski tips appeared, wagging left and right barely above the surface, whereupon I and all the onlookers were next treated to a most curious and amazing sight: A bulky, life-jacketed figure rising higher and higher out of the water, completely wrapped in flapping, glistening fronds of kelp around his neck, body, both arms and both legs.
"BRAVO! WAY TO GO, LINC!” we all yelled, trying hard, and failing, to figure out how the hell he’d managed to muscle his way through this one, still on his skis. (I would have expected something more along the lines of a Nantucket sleigh ride, with him bouncing along in that giant life jacket!)
"I THOUGHT I SAID FULL THROTTLE!" he yelled back angrily as we headed into open water. "THAT GODDAM THING CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT!"
"WHADD’YA MEAN?" I hollered. "YOU CAN'T DO BETTER THAN THAT!"