It was a busy day of boating, jet-skiing, and partying on the bayou. Combined with the general imbalance that results from floating in a rocking watercraft with friends for several hours on a hot, sunny day, my adrenalin was in high gear. We shared salads, grilled fish, and chardonnay as we strummed a guitar and told stories on the deck while watching the beautiful orange and pink sunset over the bayou. By nine o'clock, I had staggered to bed with a slightly queasy feeling. Sleep was difficult because the crazy bed kept spinning.
When I awoke at four in the morning, my bad head was even worse. Thunder shook the building and harsh rain pounded the metal roof. I vowed to start a 12-step program immediately if and when I ever made it out of bed. I willed my leg to wiggle, but it refused to move. Lightning flashed. Maybe it was a sign. As I lie there with my eyes closed listening to the storm, I wondered where we had left the boat and jet ski tied to the deck the previous night. "We," I say, because the conversation about the danger of parking a boat under the deck roof had come up often. It was high on the list of things one should never do, like leaving a sun roof open in the car when you just have to run in the grocery store for a gallon of milk. But after grabbing the milk, you grab a carton of eggs. Walking toward the checkout, you remember the laundry soap. For some reason, that triggers the need for toilet paper, spaghetti noodles, and so on, and so on. By the time you reach the register, the minute-for-a-gallon-of-milk has turned into half an hour, 42 dollars and 38 cents. The gray sky has turned into rain which is now pouring through the sunroof of the car and soaking the seats and carpet. All this despite the fact that you knew to never leave the sunroof open when not in the car even though it only takes a minute to buy some milk. Surely the rain wasn't bad enough to cause any damage to the boat, I thought, and I hoped we had tied everything tightly. Thunder cracked again.
I heard thumping on the deck outside of my room. Turning toward the window, I saw a shadow flash in a lightbeam. A new kind of pain shot through my already sick stomach. Sitting upright in the bed was an unpleasant, but necessary, sudden movement. Fortunately, I had fallen asleep in my clothes the night before. I got up quickly, walked to the patio door and drew back the curtain. My father-in-law was pacing the deck wearing rubber boots with his work clothes and carrying an umbrella and flashlight. I walked onto the deck toward him as he turned to look at me with a strained expression, caused only in part because he had forgotten his glasses. Mumbling a few curses in French, he flashed the light toward the railing. All that was visible in the sleeting rain and rising bayou water was a small section of his silver boat's bow and the rope holding it to the deck post. It was officially a sunken boat.
Water from the metal roof over the deck had drained directly into the boat parked below it. The big aluminum crawfish boat didn't have a drainage pump, and had apparently flooded quickly in the torrential rain storm. The thin rope that connected the back of the boat to the deck had broken, and only the stronger front rope remained secure. We estimated that the back end of the boat sank first from the weight of the old 70-horse Evinrude motor and that it was resting in several feet of sludge under about six feet of water. I prayed that the front end weight wouldn't collapse the deck posts and roof.
Misery loves company, so we knocked on my neighbor's door. His boat was rapidly filling with water as well, and we didn't know how to start the bilge pump in it. Larry, the neighbor, opened his patio door half awake as we explained the problems for his boat and ours. After starting the pump in his boat, we stood together on the deck surveying our sunken boat in the dark, stormy night. Determining a salvage plan required caffeine, and lots of it. As the rain continued, we stood shaking our heads, sipping hot coffee, and apologizing to each other for the rain, the stupidity, and anything else that seemed worthy of a 4 a.m. condolence. There was not much else we could do then but commiserate. It was going to be a long night.
Our discussion finally turned toward solutions. Block and tackle pulley systems surfaced among the best options for raising the boat, and we debated who might have a set. Our neighbor Larry's 80-something year old daddy was a possibility but we agreed to wait until daybreak to call him. Some time around 6:00 a.m., the wait until daybreak seemed to be taking too long and Larry called his father anyway. Help was on the way! We hoped the deck beams would support the weight of raising the sunken boat. I felt the need to contemplate my new 12-step life in a horizontal position, so I popped some aspirins, 2 spoons of Pepto, and went back to bed.
Shortly after daybreak, the rain subsided. Our life jackets and boat seat had broken loose and floated down the bayou, alerting the bayou-savvy neighbors that somebody's boat had sunk. It was the first sunken boat for Mr. Pip in his 60 years of boat ownership, and he wasn't proud of it. Concerned neighbors began arriving at the deck by land and by water, returning our boat supplies that had floated their way. I wandered back onto the deck where the neighborly boat-raising crew was assembling. They debated whether 4 or 5 inches of rain had fallen during just the first hour of the storm and maybe more afterwards.
The first set of ropes and pulleys were attached to the beams near the front, left side of the boat. A second set was delivered by another neighbor and attached near the back. A long chain was produced, and Larry graciously dove to the bottom of the bayou to attach it around the back of the boat. We secured it to the pulley ropes on the deck and hoped for the best. Inch by inch, the men cranked up the pulley ropes and the boat started to rise. It tipped to the right as the water slowly drained out. Donuts arrived along with more spectators. I worried that the deck beams might crack with the weight of the boat. Visions of the roof collapsing on the unsuspecting helpers and the boat re-sinking into the bayou flashed through my mind. But nothing more tragic happened. The pulleys ropes kept hauling the boat upward. Finally, enough water drained over the side and the boat floated upright again. A few tiny brim fish flopped in the remaining water near the back. Small plastic containers were quickly gathered to bail out the water and fish by hand, one scoop at a time.
The spectators marveled and celebrated at this first phase of good fortune during their coup de main. Wasting no time, the motor experts among them began removing the Evinrude's cover and calling in French for tools. I was glad to offer the help of my needle nose pliers and some paper towel to the cause. The mood was suspenseful as the carbuerator was dismantled, the spark plugs were dried, and the gas tank, battery and motor parts were examined. Would it ever start again? That was the next hopeful question on everybody's minds.
After a few sputtering tries, the old motor started. We were all relieved and thankful. The repairmen packed up their supplies amidst an abundance of back-patting, hand shaking, and more donut consumption. They drove away casually in their own aluminum boats, content that they had offered help to their long-time acquaintance, Mr. Pip, in this time of need.
We reviewed the night's events several times as the sun rose brightly to create another hot, steamy day. It would take a week of testing the motor to be sure that it would outlive the brief excursion to the bottom of the bayou. Nobody was hurt in the rescue process, and just our prides were bruised by our carelessness. But the lessons learned from bad boat parking , overindulgence in fine wine, and the relief provided by caring neighbors were forever instilled in my memory bank of another day and night on the bayou.