Widened in 1933, the canal was originally intended to be 32-feet deep at mean low water, and 540-feet wide. Today, on a clear day with mirror-flat water, the 17.4 mile journey was as narrow as 480 feet, still passable even for smallish vessels, although all, including sailboats, were required to be under power.
It was still a journey best reserved for experienced captains and seaworthy vessels. We were counting on having at least one of the two, and despite a day that was now overcast, with winds picking up, we weren’t the least bit concerned. We threw caution to the wind.
To her giggly delight, Tommy allowed Christine to steer the boat through the canal’s entrance, where we eventually slowed to the ten-mph no-wake limit, and Tommy once again assumed the controls.
By this time the canal was becoming noticeably crowded with bigger boats, their combined wakes forcing Tommy to power his boat into a calmer “lane” of waters, which was a bit closer to a large cargo ship than we might have liked. A bit too close for my comfort.
Hey, I’m a worrier. It’s my nature. I am now, and was back then too. It was something I could be counted on for, and obviously teased about. It’s a gene, I think. Or perhaps a chromosome? Or something like that.
Anyway, it was at that particular point that I began to worry. Not so much about the canal per se, or the boat, or even the wakes, but about the time. Or more specifically, running out of it.
“Hey, Tommy, my man?” I motioned.
“Whadaya want, Mr. fast, loose, and restless?” Tommy responded quick wittedly.
“Well what I really want is another warm-ass beer,” came my unsuccessful attempt at equal wittedness coupled with my overly casual question, “but I’m wondering…what time we gonna be back? Just curious, that’s all.”
“Uh-oh, here it comes,” muttered Tommy.
“The worry-wart is worried already,” Tommy articulated, well above the drone of the motor, prompting my ears to turn hot and red.
“Jimmyrocket’s gonna be grounded for life if he’s five minutes late,” he teased.
(Ok, perhaps true, but definitely not open for discussion in mixed company.)
“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll have you sittin’ at your kitchen table by 6:00 sharp. Not a second later. Nowareya’s happy?”
“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
“Any more questions?” he asked playfully.
And it was at THAT point that a potentially critical factor registered in my ever-perceptive, but chronically worried brain.
Nobody brought a watch. Nobody.
Anyone have a sundial?
Not that this was particularly unusual, since on most summer days’ time simply didn’t matter, and if it did, we didn’t particularly care. So although we didn’t have a watch, what we did have was a piece-of-shit portable radio with spotty reception, and updates “every hour on the hour” from Casey Kasem, assuming you happened to be paying attention, which we certainly weren’t.
Then, it started to drizzle.
Oh well.
The rest of the ride down the canal was largely spent laughing, dancing and flirting with the girls, and generally horsing around.
Tommy spent most of the ride telling testosterone-charged stories about his gang of rowdy, juvenile delinquent friends from back home. To be honest, most of them sounded as if they were right out of the West Side Story fight scene. The girls couldn’t get enough of it. Plus they were drinking from a bottle of Bali Hai Wine they brought with them and the more they drank, the hipper we got!
Once we made it through the canal and into Cape Cod Bay, we ventured farther out, and made a big loop in the wild waters, Tommy’s boat getting absolutely hammered, before heading back to the canal from whence we came.
It was now pouring rain and the canal was filled with tremendous swells, throwing us airborne then slamming the boat back to the waters, as Tommy navigated the skiff the best he could. It was a thrill ride alright, but a bit too thrilling for my taste. Our kidneys were now bruised and battered. Worse yet, many of our drinks had flown overboard! Everyone was holding on for dear life, fortunately, Christine was holding onto me.
Despite our lighthearted attitudes and penchant for speed and goofing around on the water, we were all good boatmen. Very good. Yes they were our father’s boats, but Monday to Friday we captained them, and for the most part, treated them as our own. After all, they were part and parcel of our bragging rights and an integral part of our coolness. Or hipness. Whatever.
Although I had taken the Coast Guard Auxiliary Training Course, everyone else was either self-taught, parent taught, or a mixture of each, but again, we all were outstanding skippers, Tommy included. So when the weather took a turn for the worse, he got serious, and smartly nestled his skiff in the wake of a much larger Chris-Craft cabin cruiser, probably a thirty-footer, and basically surfed his boat on top of the wake as much as the strong currents would allow.
I won’t lie. It was kind of fun, albeit made less fun by the fact the sky was now a ghoulish mixture of black and blue, with black steadily winning out, and the rain intensifying. On the bright side, by then Christine was clinging to me with a virtual death grip, her wet bathing suit top pressed firmly against me, whilst I pretended to be cool, calm, and collected, while inside panicking that we would be getting back late to the dock, that is, if we ever get back.
We made it about halfway back without too much trouble, until a humungous full-size cargo ship gained upon us, blew the hell out of its whistle, and overtook us on the port side, causing the waters to temporarily reach tsunami size and quadruple in intensity!
Tommy did a great job of keeping the boat on course as the turbulent waves seemed to be slapping us in every direction. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I mean we were flying around from wave to wave, crashing down hard on the bow then going up again to take on the next wave, but because the speeds were relatively slow, it felt like relatively controlled mayhem, until the shit smacked into the fan.
Tommy’s boat was running out of gas.
The engine started sputtering and let out some grayish-black smoke, and Tommy let out one big gigantic “Ahhh Shit...Shit, shit, shit!” upon realizing that we would now have to hook up the auxiliary two-gallon gas tank currently bouncing around on the floor along with beer cans, life jackets, empty sandwich bags, and leftover dried blood from that morning’s festivities.
Ok, calm down, I thought, We can do this and live to not tell about it. It was simply a matter of timing; we had to switch over the auxiliary tank while we were temporarily un-powered in the Cape Cod Canal, flanked by a freakin’ barge in the pouring rain while fighting huge waves and bi-polar currents. Oh great, what else could go wrong?
I’ll tell you what.
Tommy quickly barked out orders and assigned positions, as the speedboat inhaled the last few drops of marine gas and began coughing like a teenager’s first time in a cigar bar,
“JR (ok, fine, this was no time for full names), you grab the wheel and be ready the *explicative* second we power up, and keep us heading bow first into those waves. You know what to do. Patrick, big-man, you’ll pick up the gas tank while I transfer its hose into the engine. Ladies, just hold on tight; we’ve got this! With any luck we do this without losing power or we’re screwed…. OK gang, on my count of three, one, two, threeeeeeee!”
And. We. Were. Screwed.
Not only did the boat sputter and lose power before Tommy could transfer the gas line, but when the line finally went in, nothing happened. Then, suddenly the gas line tore and gas started spewing all over the boat.
That’s when the panic set in, my initial thought was: well the good news is if I die out here I’ll never get in trouble for being late! At the time, it actually felt like a good deal!
