Yearly Archives: 2016

There Was Once This Beautiful Place That Kept Trying to Kill Me…

Just a few miles south of the somewhat better-known High Cliff State Park lies this lovely place called Calumet County Park, at the end of County Trunk EE on the eastern shore of Lake Winnebago in Wisconsin. For the better part of ten years, from 1991 through 2000, I took my then-young family there, along with our boat and about a month’s worth of camping provisions, for a few days of rest, relaxation, and the occasional near brush with death.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved going to Calumet County Park during those years, despite the outward indications that somebody or something didn’t want us there. It’s a beautiful, beautiful place, situated on the Niagara Escarpment—which means level (or soft) ground can be a little hard to come by across its 200+ acres. And Lake Winnebago, the largest inland lake in the state, was ideally suited to the Sweet 17, my Bayliner runabout that I had won in 1990 by looking in the bottom of a pop can at just the right time. This park had a small harbor with launch ramps as well as some decent camp sites, very close to the water. What’s not to love? We would soon find out the answer to that one!

Karen and I first arrived at the end of County Trunk EE on a Friday in 1991, which we affectionately referred to as 1 Year B.C. (Before Children). We pulled into the park with the Sweet 17, trailered behind our trustworthy (ha!) 1980 AMC Eagle 4WD sedan. Ah, those were the days! You could say we lived on love, mainly because it was the only thing we could afford back then. It was getting late on the day as we arrived—I no longer recall why we arrived so late at a destination that was only four hours from home—and immediately fell in love with our new surroundings, at least until we discovered the spider population (Karen has always been deathly afraid of spiders, especially big ones). The sun was shining (for the last time until the end of that weekend) as we set up camp. We dined on hot dogs and beans, spent hours sitting by our campfire, made the most of our private tent accommodations, and fell asleep.

By Saturday morning, a steady rain had set up over the region. There would be no boating that day, no frolicking in the lake, either. Instead we talked, read books, and otherwise amused ourselves within the cozy confines of our tent. Sometime during that afternoon, our dear friends the Tabors arrived to check in on us (remember this was before the days when everybody had cell phones). They had known in advance where we would be staying and, having camped with us once before—when we ended an area-wide drought by bringing down torrential rainstorms and at least one confirmed tornado—they also knew it would be raining. After they arrived, we laughed about the weather conditions for a bit and then sought out the confines of the Fish Tale Inn, a bar and supper club (then) located on EE, just outside of the park.

I still remember the four of us hanging out at the Fish Tale that afternoon, having no place better to go, sipping beers and solving the problems of the world. There was a huge sturgeon mounted over the inside of the doorway. It was a monster, easily twice as long as the doorway was wide. Beneath it was a placard, providing details of the sturgeon’s prehistoric origins. My eyes were drawn to that until I noticed two raccoons, very much alive, peering into the Fish Tale from two ground-level windows that were at or above eye level inside the place, which had been built into a hillside. They were just walking along the hillside, like nobody’s business, and stopped to check out the humans on display inside the bar. Apparently I was the only one who noticed them, as everybody else in the establishment seemed oblivious to our furry observers. Sadly the Fish Tale is no more, but it was a rather interesting place in which to hang out on a rainy Saturday afternoon, at least for those two young couples, back in the day.

Eventually our friends departed and we were left to fend for ourselves. The firewood we had purchased had become quite damp, but this did not deter me. While Karen retired into our tent for a nap, I set about figuring out how to get a fire going. I arranged some soggy wood into our sunken fire ring and then set about looking for something dry to help get the fire started. The Kleenex went quickly. The few pieces of dry news paper and advertisements went almost as fast. Still no fire. I looked around for something else that would burn. Just before giving up hope, I smiled faintly as my eyes settled on a nearly full can of Coleman cooking fuel.

I doused the wet firewood soundly with the white gas, oblivious to the heavier-than-air vapors that were filling the fire pit the whole time. Fortunately for me, I struck a match from a yard or two away and tossed it into the fire pit. I never saw that match land. Instead, I saw this blue flash erupt and spread horizontally across the top of the fire pit.

FOOM!

I felt a wave of energy pass through the ground beneath my feet as the atmosphere compressed my head to a point where I could feel the insides of my ears touching each other. Then… silence. If there had been birds singing and squirrels chattering before then, they weren’t doing so any more. A meek voice called out from within our tent, “Hun…? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I stammered, “I’m fine.” I vaguely felt around my lower forehead to see if I still had any eyebrows left, then added, “I got the fire going.” And that much was true. The fire raged on for hours and we enjoyed another simple campfire meal, undisturbed by mosquitoes or wildlife of any kind.

The following day, on our last day at camp, the sun rose and there was no more rain. For the first time during that trip—for the first time ever—we launched the Sweet 17 and took her out of the harbor and out onto Lake Winnebago. The water was like glass and there was little or no other marine traffic on the lake that morning. It was glorious. It was also bait, set to convince us to come back. And we did, with our children, foolish mortals that we were.

The years that followed were a combination of the best and worst vacation moments of our lives.

One of my fondest memories involves Nat King Cole and pancakes. I had this portable radio that I always took along when we went camping and there was only one station that I could get clearly from Cal County Park. It was an oldies station that played the likes of Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, etc. On one amazingly calm, sunny morning, I was frying bacon over hot coals and flipping pancakes on the camp stove, while Nat King Cole sang Unforgettable. I can still recall every bit of what that morning was like. My view of the lake, the smell of the forest intermingling with the aromas of my food cooking, the sound of that song playing on an otherwise quiet morning, everything. It was awesome.

We did not come back in 1992, the year our Teresa was born, or 1993, when John was born, but we made up for lost time in 1994, when we returned to Cal County Park with our new family. This was the year I sliced open my right-hand pinky with a brand new (and very sharp) Swiss Army Knife, while setting up camp. This was also the year we were treated to record cold temperatures. Karen checked on our son in the middle of the night and began heaping all of our bath and beach towels into his portable crib, because she had discovered the boy was turning blue.

The following year brought record high temperatures, when Karen sought urgent relief for our kids by tossing them into Lake Winnebago. It was then that we discovered how much water a standard disposable diaper is capable of holding. This is also the year that our young son potty-trained himself, having decided, after having had his epiphany in Lake Winnebago, that he no longer wished to wear diapers. And true to his word, he never had to again. As we drove toward Appleton on Saturday afternoon, seeking relief from the extreme heat, a news report came on over the radio detailing local livestock losses due to the extreme heat. Our Teresa became very upset at the news of cows dying from heat exhaustion. We eventually tried to interject humor into the issue by adding wisecracks about chickens exploding. For some reason this seemed funny at the time. But we were punished for our mirth by picking a Burger King at which to have lunch, only to discover that their air conditioning had broken down.

You would think this next experience might have scared us off for good, but no. Another set of friends of ours, the Shermans, and some friends of theirs, joined us at Cal County Park, and believe me, we all had the time of our lives. Things went well enough by day. We frolicked in the sun, we cooked over our open fire. We fished from the shores of lake Winnebago, where I caught a fairly impressive (and very angry) walleye. Then the storms rolled in.

We had settled in for the night, but the storm continued to build. Sometime during that night, I was awakened from a sound sleep by my loving wife, who had grown concerned because the once-vertical walls of our tent were being bent horizontally by winds of extraordinary magnitude.

“Michael…”

“Hmmm…”

“Michael!”

“Huh… what?”

“Look!” By this time the walls of our tent were bending horizontally toward my face and our entire world was being lit up by continuous lightning in strobe-like fashion. We were literally in the storm.

“Should we stay put or get out?”

“Let’s get in the car,” I reasoned. I didn’t think the tent would hold out much longer. We gathered everything together and woke the kids up.

Teresa woke up in a flash and then helped her brother wake up by screaming into his face, “John, get up now! We’re gonna’ die!!!!” I guess she didn’t want him to miss it. My son played his part perfectly, first opening his eyes and then screaming for all he was worth.

After a moment of frantically searching for our car keys, only to discover they were already in my hand, we lined up and prepared to exit. As soon as I unzipped our tent, the storm took it. As we drove toward the main (read: the only) park building, the storm sheared our tent pegs clean off at ground level and flattened our tent, our battery-powered lantern still glowing from within.

We arrived at the park office, we saw the maintenance garage doors were open. Turns out they had been opened for us. We parked facing the lake, gathered our kids in a handful of beach towels and headed up toward the building. From somewhere behind me, lightning struck the lake with a blinding flash followed by an immediate explosion of thunder. With my daughter wrapped in my arms, I ran for all I was worth. Even more amazing,Karen was right behind me, with John bundled into her arms.

The following Sunday morning, as we prepared to head for home, I discovered some tee shirts at the camp store proclaiming, “Experience nature’s peace.” Laughing hysterically, I bought two of them, one for Karen and one for myself. Amazingly enough, those who were friends of ours upon arrival, remained friends of ours, even after this experience.

You would think that would be it, but we are slow learners. We cae back, one more time. The year was 2000, Teresa was eight years old, John was six, the weather was uncharacteristically perfect, and we had been caught well off of our guard. Sometime that Saturday afternoon, Karen and the kids had decided to go down to the lake. I was doing something at the campsite, intending to join them shortly, but I never got the chance.

I remember Karen running toward me, cradling Teresa, who had been screaming in pain. She had slipped on a moss-covered rock and smashed her front teeth onto the same rock. I took John with me and got supplies out of our first aid kit for the girls. Long story short, one of my daughter’s adult teeth had been damaged in the fall. We called our family dentist, packed everything up and headed back to Illinois, never to return.

There is more to the story. Calumet County Park is more than just a campground, situated on the Niagara Escarpment. The land also includes a number of effigy mounds, Indian burial grounds, up on the escarpment. Does that play into this story? I don’t know.

I haven’t gone back since summer of 2000. I have often thought about taking a motorcycle trip back to the park. But dare I do so? I welcome your thoughts.

Until next time…

Of Love and Motorcycles

Every year around the second weekend in February, three things have been happening for some time now—Valentine’s Day, my wife’s birthday, and the International Motorcycle Show in Chicago. One of these things is not like the other, but sometimes it’s difficult for me to tell which one. This year’s trio of festivities was one of those times.

Of these three traditions, Valentine’s Day would be the oldest. Some people call it a corporate holiday, but that’s not at all accurate. The earliest known written Valentine dates back to the year 1415, and the origins of this holiday concern a Christian martyr who lived, and consequently died, in the third century. We don’t know that Saint Valentine was born or killed in February. The placement of his feast day may have more to do with the pagan celebration of Lupercalia, which fell on February 15. All of this is the stuff of mystery and legend, so who knows, really, but Google it if you want to learn more.

Beer KarenNext in the chronological order of things would be the birth of my wife. I can’t get into those particulars without getting into trouble. To put things into perspective, let me just say that we were married over 30 years ago and leave it at that. I do need to tell you some things about Karen, though, things that are highly relevant to this story.

For openers, Karen is not a motorcycle fanatic. Due at least in part to certain physical ailments and constraints, her total saddle time with me over the years amounts to less than four hours. If not for my own obsession with the hobby, I’m reasonably certain Karen wouldn’t have any interest in it at all. Yet nobody has ever been more supportive and encouraging of my own participation than she. On those rare occasions where pleasant weather and my free time converge, Karen is usually the first one to suggest that I go for a ride. Shortly after I had my first and, so far, only motorcycle accident, I briefly entertained the idea of taking the insurance money for my totalled bike and not buying another one. Karen let that idea take voice for all of 20 seconds before choking the life out of it with the words, “I guess you could, but you’d be doing it for all the wrong reasons.” This is the woman who more than once now, when it would have made more financial sense to keep the money, advised me to buy the bike. This is also the woman who, knowing that she would not enjoy riding pillion with me for very long, actually encourages me to let other beautiful women go riding with me. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the other Saint Karen.

DucatiRelatively young in the grand scheme of things, the origins of the International Motorcycle Shows only go back as far as the 1982 model year. I began going in 2003, the winter before I got my first bike. I was a late bloomer, learned to ride and got my license when I was in my early 40’s. At that point, I just wanted to get the “M” added to my license classification and never intended to actually get a bike. Or so I thought. But once bitten, once I had that M, well you know. So even though motorcycle ownership seemed to be out of the question financially, I wanted to go see bikes. So I dragged my wife and then-young kids to the big cycle show. A few months later, I had a bike of my own, a story unto itself, which we will get to. And I haven’t missed the IMS once since having gone that first time.

This year was destined to be different from the get-go. Both of my kids, now adults, have M’s on their drivers licenses and both have enjoyed going to the IMS with Karen and me over the years. But while my daughter has a healthy appreciation for motorcycles, my son was always more of a fanatic, like me. The two of us would spend more time looking at the bikes, sitting on bikes, engaging vendor representatives in conversation, etc., and then talking about the whole affair for weeks afterward. But this year, for the first time since 2003, my son wasn’t here to go with us. He’s attending an actors conservatory in Oregon for two years, so it’s understandable, but that didn’t make it any easier on me.
Perhaps that’s why Karen requested that we make a special weekend of it, as part of her birthday/Valentine’s Day celebration. She had never done so over the course of the previous twelve years, but in hindsight, it seems to make sense. Sure, it was still bittersweet, but to a much lesser extent because my wife, having had the foresight to know how I would likely fixate on my son’s absence, chose to displace all that with a night and day filled with love and motorcycles.

We arrived at our hotel in separate cars, after work on Friday. Like all the hotels surrounding the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center, the Hilton Rosemont is quite nice, if a bit pricey. Parking in the hotel parking lot was $25 per car. The breakfast buffet was nice, but was almost as expensive as parking the cars. They have a small sundry shop, where everything costs about triple what you would pay for the same thing at a gas station convenience store. Fortunately, I always carry my own wine and nibblies for occasions like this. To be honest, I’m amazed there wasn’t a meter of some sort on the toilet’s flush handle. But it was nice. Our room was spacious and clean, the king bed quite comfortable. As romantic getaways go, you could do worse.

OompahFor her birthday supper, Karen had requested the Hofbräuhaus Chicago, which is very close to the hotel. Had it not been the coldest night of this winter season, we might have tried walking there. But it was bitter cold out, so we took my Chevy, which was still warm. What should have taken a minute or two ended up taking a quarter hour filled with wrong turns, dead ends and a stop in the wrong parking lot, where we were given directions to our destination. Bear in mind, this was only a half mile from our hotel, a mere ten minutes away on foot. But we valet parked, laughed it off and walked inside.

Beer Vat HBHI wouldn’t call the Hofbräuhaus romantic, but it is a fun place. The food is great, the beer is quite good, and they have live entertainment. It can be a bit loud, especially if your table is close to the stage, but it’s a good time. I would definitely go back. Try the warm pretzel for openers. Imported from Germany the thing is about as big as a dinner plate and comes with a cheese spread and two different types of mustard. Goes very well with a stein of beer.

PretzelFriday night was all about celebration and romance, but Saturday was fun, too—just in a different way. We got up uncharacteristically early for a Saturday, enjoyed a very nice breakfast buffet at the hotel’s restaurant, checked out of our room, and then took the heated sky bridge from the hotel directly into the convention center. The show had just opened and since I had already bought our tickets, we were able to walk right in without having to stand in line.

Fast MeThe best time to attend the International Motorcycle Show in Chicago is on Friday. The show opens in the afternoon, while many people are at work, and runs until 8:00 PM. There are fewer people, and the manufacturer and vendor reps are fresh. Since 2003, I’ve been able to do that once, and only because I was unemployed at the time. But for those who can go on Friday, I recommend it. The second best day to go is on Sunday. It’s way more crowded than on Friday, but still isn’t too bad during the early hours. The key to doing the IMS on Saturday, probably the busiest day of the three, is to get there when it opens, move as best you can, and try to be done by early afternoon. That’s exactly what we did and by the time we left, around 1:00 PM, the line to get in was intimidating.

Custom NessKaren and I have always viewed the IMS as having two essential two parts, the bike manufacturers and the merchandise vendors. There are other categories, namely the brand-oriented owners clubs, organizations and charities, motorcycle events and tourism, custom bike displays and contests, seminars and demonstrations, some sort of stunt show, and the motorcycle dealership exhibitors. All are nice, but we have always been about the bikes themselves and the product vendors.

We spent hours walking the show. We always spend some time with our favorite tee shirt vendors, an older couple out of New York who have watched our kids grow up, know our faces if not our names, and always greet us with sincere hugs. They sell an awesome selection of tee shirts, too.

Fast KawAs for the bikes, I always like to see what’s new, and because I try to keep up with developments from the major manufacturers, I often arrive looking for specific models. But my perspective has changed entirely since I began attending this show. In 2003 I had never owned a motorcycle and wasn’t entirely sure I ever would. I went to the show wide-eyed and salivating, but left knowing that a purchase wasn’t imminent. Or so I thought.

I wanted to get a bike. I didn’t see how that was possible, for a variety of reasons, but I could imagine the possibility. And so I never stopped thinking about it. Inside of three months, I had a Honda 750 Shadow A.C.E. in my garage. The bike was barely a year old and had something like 3,600 miles on it.

The next year I went to the show as a bike owner, a bona fide motorcyclist. I still salivated, because there were many bikes I thought I might enjoy more than the one I owned. But again I left feeling fairly certain that a purchase wasn’t imminent. One year later, same thing. But two months after that, I bought my first new bike, a 2005 Honda ST1300 sport touring rig.

From that point forward, the number of “bikes I’d rather have” dwindled. In 2007, I suffered my first and (so far) only crash and my insurance company bought me another bike. I chose the same model.

Six more years passed before I bought another bike, not because I didn’t want one, but because the only bikes I wanted more than the one I had were out of my reach. But I continued to follow industry trends and developments, attended demo ride events, religiously continued to attend the IMS, and never closed my mind to the possibilities of getting that next bike. In 2013 I took possession of a gently used 2012 Victory Vision Tour an American made, full-on touring bike powered by a 106 cubic inch v-twin engine. This changed everything.

Custom RatFrom a North American touring standpoint, my current ride is near the top of the food chain. There are other “full dresser” touring bikes, each with its own set of pluses and minuses, and I look at every one of them each year. But for the last two years now, I leave the show without wishing I could afford a different bike than the one I own. I may dream of a new accessory or two, but that’s the extent of it. I’m in a good place.

By early afternoon, Karen and I had seen everything we wanted to see and were ready to head for home. The show had become quite crowded by then and we couldn’t help but notice the depth and breadth of humanity that was outside buying tickets and waiting to get into the show. We had picked a good time to leave.

Beer MeI am grateful to Karen for having thought up this getaway weekend, which provided some much-needed “us” time and helped me not to dwell on the first-time absence of my son. Such is the power of love and motorcycles. As far as I know, our son will miss the show next year, too. Will we do the same thing again? You’re asking the wrong person.

Until next time…

Enjoying the Bounty of Starved Rock State Park

I’ve known this place since I was a young lad of five or six, maybe even before then. When I took up the motorcycle hobby, some 35 years later, I discovered that Starved Rock State Park was a favorite stop for bikers, especially those who live along the Interstate 80 corridor in Illinois. And so it seems as though everybody knows about Starved Rock—so why write about it—yet even today I know motorcyclists who have never been there. So for the benefit of those alleged few, let’s take a ride.

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I rode there last fall—Sunday, November 1, to be exact. It had been a particularly mild day, the kind where a leather vest and hoodie still provided sufficient warmth, so I suited up accordingly and headed out for my afternoon ride. At that point, I hadn’t even been certain where I was going, but before long I was making my way toward Utica, Illinois.

From my home base in Plainfield, there are three common ways to get to Starved Rock: fast, scenic, and somewhere in-between. The fastest route is via Interstate highways—in my case I-55 down to I-80, where the speed limit is 70, and then straight west to the Highway 178/Utica exit. You miss a lot of cool stuff by going that route, but if time is of the essence, it’s nice to have this option.

The in-between route will keep you off the Interstates, and give you some scenery, but it’s still a rather straight shot. From my neck of the woods, the objective is to get to Yorkville. From the intersection of Illinois Highways 47 and 71, head southwest on 71 toward Ottawa. Enjoy the scenery and be mindful of the few small towns you will encounter along the way, some of which are known to be speed traps. Once you get to Ottawa, you have two options—stay on 71 through Ottawa and beyond, enjoying a few twisties along the way and entering Starved Rock State Park from the south, or turn west onto Highway 6 and take that until you reach Illinois 178 and turn left, toward Utica, eventually entering the state park from the north.

The scenic route, my personal favorite, is to take Illinois Highway 6 west until it intersects Highway 71 in Ottawa. Illinois Highway 6, from roughly Morris to Ottawa, is relatively scenic and includes several pleasant, sweeping curves along the way. Once you reach Ottawa, you have the same two choices that I mentioned earlier, stay on 6 or take 71.

Me, I say why should I have to choose? Therefore I tend to take one route going into the park and the other coming out. The order I choose usually depends on the time of day, but we should talk about the differences. If you take 71 heading west toward the park, you will travel through downtown Ottawa, which is not exactly a booming metropolis, but is still much larger than a small town. Once past Ottawa, you will encounter a stretch of technical riding, something rather rare in northern Illinois. Expect a few tight, blind curves and elevation changes. They’ll be over before you know it, but give this road the respect it deserves. I have encountered deer, wild turkeys, incompetent drivers and large trucks along this road. Trust me, I know.

I had an interesting experience along that curvy stretch of 71 about ten or twelve years ago, when I was leading a group of ten bikes home from a run out to Bishop Hill. As I leaned into the first curve, I felt this sharp, stinging sensation on the upper right corner of my forehead, followed by another, and another, and another. Apparently that corner of my open-face helmet had snagged a wasp, which was making its displeasure known by attempting to perforate that corner of my forehead. So there I was, trying to remain calm as I navigated those twisties with my right hand and slapped with my left until I got rid of my unwelcome hitchhiker. My maneuvers may not have looked too graceful, but I managed to stay on the road and get rid of the wasp, so I think I did okay.

If you take 6, you’ll encounter a few sweeping curves and a fair amount of farm fields. You will also find an excellent Cajun restaurant called Ron’s Cajun Connection, right before you reach Utica. It doesn’t look like much from outside, but if it’s open, there will likely be a line to get in. It’s that good.

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Let’s talk a little bit about the park itself. This is one of the most popular state parks in the area, if not the most popular, so the odds of ever finding it deserted on any day of the week, at least during riding season, are slim indeed. But it is well-attended for a reason. This place is beautiful! Situated along the south bank of the Illinois River, Starved Rock State Park offers an assortment of hiking trails, a variety of camping accommodations, a nice hotel/lodge, a pretty cool visitor’s center, gift shop, etc. As state parks go, the restaurant at the lodge is pretty good. Check out their Sunday brunch offering.

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The centerpiece of this park, in my opinion, is its namesake, Starved Rock. It’s the stuff of Native American legend, which describes a tribe of Illiniwek who were engaged in battle and trapped upon the butte until they starved to death. Whether that story is true or not, Starved Rock is a beautiful place, offering scenic views of the Illinois River and the surrounding countryside. The ascent to Starved Rock now involves a series of wooden staircases. Back in the 1960’s, when I first went there, we climbed steps carved into the stone itself. And if you look through the current wooden staircase in certain places, you can still see what’s left of those stone steps… childhood memories for me.

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Hungry? In Utica, besides Cajun Connection, check out Duffy’s Tavern, offering friendly faces and good sandwiches, or Canalport, a bit of a step up, offering the best homemade bar chips in the area, I think. There are other options, but these are the ones I know personally.

On the Ottawa side, check out Hank’s Farm, a restaurant and gift shop outside of town on Illinois 71. During riding season, check out the free-roaming chickens, peacocks, etc. on the grounds. They also do a decent Sunday brunch.

For whatever it’s worth, my current leather vest came from Stonehead Leather and I got my leather jacket from Mix’s Trading Post. Both of these Utica business establishments are well-respected by the biker community and both have earned my endorsement as well.

Surely there is more to be seen in this neck of the woods. What I offer you here is but a taste.

Until next time…

Tales from the Dockside

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Before I was a biker, I was a boater. Before I became a boater, I was just a guy who wanted a boat. But all that changed on July 4, 1990 when I was thrust into the world of recreational boating by the makers of Royal Crown Cola. Let me tell you about that.

It had been a typical 4th of July holiday in Bensenville, where my wife and I lived at the time. I had been grilling outside and drinking copious amounts of Diet RC Cola. In fact I had been drinking cans of Diet RC for weeks, because of a contest they had been running at the time. Specially marked cases of the product had been proclaiming, “Win A Boat Instantly!”

So there I was, doing some dishes in my kitchen. I had just drained another can of Diet RC and was tossing my can into the trash when I remembered the contest. I literally stopped in mid-toss, drew my hand back away from the trash bin, brought the empty can up to my right eye, and peered inside to see the winning code printed across the bottom.

BOT

I put the can down and stared straight ahead, stunned into disbelief. After taking a breath or two, I put the empty can back up to my right eye and looked inside again.

BOT

Now my heart was racing. I had just come that close to throwing a 17-foot Bayliner into the kitchen trash bin. But I hadn’t thrown it out. There I stood, alone in my kitchen, still just a little bit dumbfounded by the whole thing as I stared at the winning can in my hand. I had to tell Karen. I wanted to call out to her so eloquently, “My dear, come see what I have here,” but instead I began bellowing at the top of my lungs, “Boat!” That wasn’t what I’d meant to say or how I’d meant to say it, but that’s all that came out, again and again. “Boat! Boat!”

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My poor wife came scrambling into the kitchen at top speed, probably expecting to find that an ocean liner had somehow crashed into our heavily wooded back yard. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I still couldn’t say any multisyllabic words, so I held the can out to her and said, “Look!”

Karen looked at me as one might look at a deranged lunatic wielding a bloody machete. Ever so tentatively, she reached out, accepted the empty can, and held it up to one eye. Her other eye popped open when she realized what she was seeing. Then seized by the same excitement, she began to yell at the top of her lungs, “Boat! Boat!” I’m sure we sounded like a couple of overgrown Muppets on Sesame Street. Eventually we regained the gift of human speech, but that’s pretty much how it started.

Months later, we took possession of the craft. While at the dealership, no fewer than three people jokingly cautioned us about remembering to install the boat’s drain plug. First there was the business manager, who collected the sales tax for which we were responsible, executed various forms, and otherwise gave us legal possession of our new boat. “Here’s all your documentation, here are your two keys… oh, and here is your drain plug.” She handed over a plastic bag with the little brass plug inside. “Don’t forget to put it in. Ha! Ha!”

scan0004Then there was the young man who took us up on the boat to give a crash course in what and where everything was. The last thing he said was, “Did they give you the drain plug?” I nodded. “Good! Well, don’t forget to put it in. Ha!”

Finally there was the guy who helped me hitch the trailer to the back of our tow vehicle, a 1980 AMC Eagle (we were people of simple means back then, as we pretty much are now). As I got into the car, he called out after me, “Hey, you know the drain plug is out. Did they…” I held up the little plastic bag and waved it back and forth. “Ah, good! Now don’t forget to put it in. Ha! Ha!” I shook my head, smiling. Don’t forget to put the drain plug in… What kind of an idiot did they take me for, anyway?

I’ll never forget the first time we took that boat out. We had hauled the boat up to my in-laws’ place in Kenosha. Yes, it was a bit of a drive from our home, but they lived a lot closer to water than we did and had ample space in which to store the boat and trailer, when we weren’t using it—which turned out to be most of the time. I still remember what great pains we had taken to ensure that we had everything before leaving Bensenville. We had picked up a lot of essential equipment in preparation for our maiden voyage: PFD’s, dock lines, anchor and rode, a chart of Lake Michigan, 2-way marine radio, air horn, first aid kit, and on and on and on. Then there were the few things that had come with the boat, like the ignition key, hitch lock key, operating manual, and—oh, yes—the drain plug, which I stuffed down into my right front jeans pocket, so as not to leave it behind.

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A couple of hours later, we were at Kenosha Harbor, preparing to launch our Sweet 17 for the first time. Karen and I were both a little nervous, having never launched a boat before, but we had gone over the process many times on our way up from Illinois and worked as a team to ensure a smooth execution on the ramp. Right.

I was at the wheel, trying very hard to look cool as I backed the trailer into position on the ramp. Karen stood on the dock, signaling and calling out helpful directions. “A little left… A little more.. Straighten out… Go right… No, right… No, your other right… Wait! Okay, pull forward and straighten out.” You get the idea.

We were finally lined up relatively straight on the ramp. I set the car’s parking brake and got out so that the two of us could make ready. We removed all the tie downs, fastened the dock lines and fenders, and unhooked the bow eye safety chain. Karen took the dock lines into her hands and stepped out onto the dock as I got back into the car and began backing down the ramp. Slowly, slowly, slowly I went until the boat floated free and Karen drew the lines in. She would stay with the boat at the dock while I went and parked the tow vehicle. That hadn’t been so bad! I felt proud as I drove away and up toward the parking lot.

I pulled into an open parking space, shut off the car and got out. Being the conscientious sort, the last thing I did before shutting the car door was to feel my right pocket for the car keys. I slapped my hand down against my right leg… and felt that little brass drain plug.

Dale Earnhardt would have been proud to see how fast I sent that car and trailer across the parking lot and down the hill, back toward the launch ramps. As I barreled down the hill, I could see Karen waving frantically and pulling on the dock lines for all she was worth as the back end of the boat sank lower and lower into the water. She didn’t even have to direct me as I backed down the ramp—not that she could have, anyway.

I put the back end of the trailer as far into the water as I dared to, set the parking brake, and flew onto the deck to help my wife draw the boat forward, its bow now pointing up toward the top of the ramp as­ though to say, “Get me up there now!” It took some doing to winch the boat onto the trailer, but we got it done. Then, with the bow eye chain safely in place, I hauled my boat, trailer, and quite a few gallons of Kenosha harbor up to the top of the ramp, where we let the incline and gravity help drain the water out.

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While we were standing there, another couple pulled in on the opposite side of the same dock. The man hopped onto the dock and began walking up toward the parking area, to retrieve his tow vehicle and trailer. He paused as he passed us, glanced at the water streaming out the back of the Sweet 17 and deduced, “Forgot to put the drain plug in, eh?” His tone was not the least bit unkind as he said this. Rather, he just looked at me knowingly and nodded, his gray hairs catching the sunlight as he did so. I felt a little better after that.

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We did get out on Lake Michigan, once we had gotten everything relatively dried off, and had a wonderful time out on the water. I felt rather skipper-like as we skimmed the waves, waving at other boaters and observing people on shore as they watched us passing by. Gulls flew overhead. The sun shined down upon us. Despite a rather challenging start, it turned out to be a good day.

mason-awardIn the months and years that passed, I made a point of furthering my boating knowledge. I took a safe boating class offered by the United States Power Squadrons, then went on to join the Chicago Power Squadron, became instructor qualified and began teaching sessions of the course myself. One year I even won an award for my teaching efforts. My students always appreciated the stories I offered as real-world examples of certain principles they were trying to learn, but my drain plug story always got the biggest laughs.

Until next time…