2/7/2003

2/7/2003 - 12:00

FROM SPAIN TO MARBLEHEAD

When the office assistant gave the note to my Spanish teacher I naturally assumed it was about me and that I was in some kind of trouble. As I walked the halls with the kind lady to the Parkside Jr. high office she told me about the trouble. A dentist appointment. My mother, perhaps born of her own fears, would spare her children from worry by springing the news only minutes before any mouth-doctoring.

I sat still in the glazed brick school office, the relief of not being in a jackpot offset by the thought of sharp pointy objects poking at my teeth. Just as my stomach acids rose to an intolerable level, my father walked in to sign me out for the day. This struck me as odd; my mother the one who delivered us to the torturer's chair.

I climbed into his truck and found a couple hamburgers from Mitchell's tavern on the seat. "I got you some lunch, Johnny, (he always called me Johnny) we're going out to the boat." Plucked from the fiery hell of the dentist's chair, I was a happy kid. Add to that the better part of a day off from school to spend with my pop on our boat and you get a memory that can be recalled warmly twenty-some-odd years later.

She was a 22' Trojan built in 1956 with a wide beam and high sides, a 100 horse grey marine inboard drive and a little cabin with a tiny toilet (head) at the bow. The old girl was alot of work to keep in shape and required constant maintainence.

Three weeks earlier, at Marblehead and headed for Kelly's island, the thrill of a wide-open throttle exploded as we hit an under water break wall. The propeller strut snapped and bent the shaft causing the boat to vibrate madly. The guideless propeller promptly sawed a hole in the hull while the wounded 'Carol Ann III' motored, sinking, back to the marina.

We pulled next to the slings, the water in the boat now at our knees, and my Dad jumped out to inspire the house boat waiting to be lifted out of the water to move. Once it was out, he shut the motor off and we drifted over the huge nylon straps-and sunk. There she was, her bow and windshield the only things visible above the water, resting in the slings. A marina employee showed up hours later to fire up the machine and lift the beaten boat from the brown water. In an area with tall weeds and a dirt path, he put her in a cradle and collected his pay. We waited long into the night, cold and hungry, for my Mom to rescue us. She and her friend got absolutely lost in the rural lakeside northern Ohio night. Mom was upset, Dad was upset and I was beat. On the warm quiet car ride home, we concocted a plan to fix the grounded cruiser.

He sprung me from espanol armed with a shiny new brass shaft, prop and strut as well as an aluminum patch. We spent the day on her under-side, finally setting her gently into the water. Motoring from Marblehead to Beaver Creek Lagoon, her home, was a lesson in bliss. I learned the importance of having a plan, even if it's the wrong one, and of the splendor of effort and persistence. He did most of the work, I'm sure, but today I recall it as a team effort.

This, one of the fondest memories of my Dad, is a brick in the building of my character which he so carefully placed. Other bricks, more like flag stones, I could do without; but you take the good with the bad. On that May morning he gave his son a smile. God bless him. I hope I can bring smiles and warm thoughts to my children-for them to give to theirs.