trophy

it's been two weeks since i've seen her, and my first thought, which i unknowingly say out loud -- loud enough that a guy who i'm walking past replies "what?", which startles me -- is "jesus, she is one hell of a dirty girl." and I think, quietly to myself this time, "yeah, she may be dirty, but she's all mine."

it has been a tough winter. too much snow, too much cold, and always, as usual here in the pacific northwest, too much rain for way too long. and the weather has taken its toll on her. but today the sun is shining and i'm looking forward to spending some time alone with her.

as i grab a railing and step on board i always remember one of the golden rules of boating -- one hand for the boat. i've fallen out of boats before, always into lakes, but never into the cold puget sound. it wouldn't take long to drown or die from hypothermia here. the water never changes much from around 45 degrees. and the one other guy on the dock has left, leaving me alone, as i'd hoped. if i had to fall, i'd much rather fall in the warm caribbean, or in the waters off cabo, where we vacation. but that too would scare me. i've caught great gilled monsters in those dark deep waters and the thought of being with giant toothy creatures, who i'm sure recognize my stink, taking their well-earned vengeance on me, makes me shiver.

my wife, the best catch of my life by the way, and i bought this 20 foot trophy barely a year ago. we bargained a good price with the owner, although with the economy the way it is now, it's probably not worth what we paid for it. but it's ours. and we've put lots of wonderful hours on her. it wasn't exactly the boat we were looking for. we wanted a 24 footer. but when we found this 20 foot hard topper, almost brand new with less than 15 hours on the 4-cylinder cummins diesel, we changed our minds and made an offer.

bow to stern. port to starboard. i give her a good look-over.

yes, i'd rode her hard and put her away wet. her deck is scuffed with black marks from the rubber coating that covers the wire mesh on the crab pots, which are lashed to the top of the boat, reminding me of the dungeness crab feasts we enjoyed last year. there's green mold in the corners of the deck near the scuttles and in the two fish coffins, along with a bit of dried blood. the windows have some salt caked in the edges where the winter rains haven't hit to wash it away. nothing soap and water won't fix -- and a good waxing -- when i pull her from the water.

while in the back of the boat i open the battery box and switch on the batteries, then step into the small, narrow cabin and kick over the diesel. she starts almost instantly even though it's been two weeks since she last ran. she blows a light, wispy-white smoke from her exhaust until she warms up. the smoke is annoying and i wish i knew how to keep it from happening. maybe some day i'll check my owner's manual.

i unlock the cuddy and step down inside. the carbon monoxide alarm is sounding like a fucking banshee, not from the poisonous co gas, but because the boat's batteries are low. with the engine running to recharge the batteries it'll stop its shriek in about 10 minutes. i tell myself to wire the damn thing through a switch so i can shut if off -- but i know it'll probably never happen, just not high enough on my priority list.

the small cuddy is dry. i keep an electric heater going down here to drive the moisture out and keep mold away. sometimes i find a bit of water in the cuddy -- fresh water, not salt, so i know the hull doesn't leak -- but not this time. every time i step into the cuddy i remember that the reason we were looking for a 24 footer was to find a boat with a larger cuddy. one we can fish and water camp in comfortably. but the small cuddy will do for us now. there's room for the fishing gear when it's not being used, a porta-potty, and cushions to sleep on. and the boat has a heater that works off the diesel when it's under way so the cuddy and cabin are always toasty warm when we're on the water during lousy weather.

climbing back out i settle into the captain's chair in the cabin. the day is sunny, but cool. there's not a lot of heat in our low washington march sun, so i switch on the diesel heater to low and open the vent into the cabin. in less than 15 minutes i'm warm enough to shed my jacket, and as an added bonus the co alarm finally shuts up.

i switch on the marine radio and listen for boating traffic. it's pretty sparse, not many pleasure boats out today in the middle of the week. eventually a commercial ship comes up on channel 16, announcing to the mukilteo ferry that she is coming through their waters, and then the radio goes silent again.

"amanda" by boston is playing on the stereo when i push its power button. how strange and intriguing. boston is one of my favorite groups. and there was an amanda, many years ago, in one of my past lives. i find myself singing along and smiling with the memories.

i snap open the one can of cold beer i brought along. usually tequila is my drink of choice when boating -- sometimes too much tequila, i have to admit -- and yes, i am aware of the dangers of drinking and boating. but now the slight alcohol buzz, the smell of saltwater, the diesel's hum, and the breeze all combine with the sun beating into the cabin. i remember fish caught and lost. stories told. friends come and gone. adventures had and hoped for. this is reality.