Yaquina 11/13/11

Threadbare and shambling like an addict on the street, I come back. I come back to the pages I’ve been neglecting, and while my student essays scream from their file folder for attention, I must write. There are things abrew in me that must be out. I’ve been wanting to write now for a few years those couple of days in Newport back in what was it—1990? Boat stuck in the water with the tide running out like sand through an hour glass. Kim, college girl that was flirting with me, suddenly confounded with the situation but also somewhat amused. Eric, I’ll call him that since I’ve forgotten his name, waiting at the lift, watching our progress and then our lack of progress; he called the Coast Guard, bless his heart.

And me. It was a blunder, allowing myself to be lured into flirtations, ignoring the channel markers, plowing the Duck deep into the muck of the bay, her keel wedged deeper  by the force of the spinnaker now fuller than ever, driving us deeper. By the time we had the sail down, and I was able to look over the gunwale, the mud bottom was clearly visible with seaweed flying around and small fish swimming against the current with open mouths, catching whatever was brought to them before exiting the stage for deeper waters. Because the boat would not turn, fast as she was in the mud, the ebbing water splashed and cackled against the hull, sending little whirling eddies off with the tide. The bottom became more clearly magnified through the surface, and I could see the teaming minutia cling and fin against the powerful draw. I watched this, yes, with a sinking feeling.

We rocked the Duck furiously. Back and forth with Kim on one side and me ant the other. We rocked the Duck but she would rock until she would rock no more that day. Kim and I shrugged. What could we do? Tide running out. We might spend the night and now I really wonder what would have happened to my life if we had? We could see that we were only around two hundred yards from shore.  We might be able, once the water had completely receded from the shoal, to make it somehow to the shore. It would be a mucky trudge and time consuming, but what else could we do? Stay on Duck? 

The thought had dawned on the two of us perhaps at the same time, just after we realized how stuck we were. We had been slowly drawing nearer to each other, Kim and I, over the last few days. When we volunteered to participate in the Yaquina Bay Regatta, representing what was then a rag-tag UO sailing team,  we understood that we would be spending more time together. And Eric, poor Eric, also grasped this fact. Perhaps this is the reason he decided not to sail the boat with me back to the lift. Maybe it was a gut-level feeling that if he went instead of Kim, we would resent him for keeping us apart for what was to be a lovely half-mile spinnaker ride from the marina to the lift. Whatever the reason, he decided to drive the truck and trailer to the lift and let us go.

I was really agitated at our predicament. I felt like a complete fool, which of course was completely justified. Kim to her credit seemed ready to laugh it off, which to this day I am in admiration of. I keep wondering what would have happened if we had taken any of the several chances we had to make love. The first night, we stayed in the boat and Eric stayed in the truck. The second night I stayed in the boat alone, and the third night we stayed in a hotel that the Police secured for us. But somehow, it was the chance afforded by the Duck stuck in the muck that had us both pondering the possibilities of the moment. 

And moments cascade into others. Only a few minutes after we had realized how truly screwed was our situation. Kim spotted a motorized inflatable approaching at high speed. As they neared, we saw they were Coast Guard: two guys in wetsuits and life jackets who had responded to a call we later learned was from Eric. He no doubt had gone into a fit of giggling when he saw the Duck suddenly stop and drop the spinnaker. He made the right move, but I can’t help wondering if he thought perhaps that I had intentionally run the Duck aground. Maybe not. Eric and I had sailed in smaller craft under spinnaker, and he knew my proclivity to let that great sail take over. Nevertheless, he may have also understood the certain alignment of the stars when this grounding occurred.

How to tell this story? From whose narration? I think this could be quite funny if told straight, without any hint of literal irony. This story needs to go all the way. It needs to bring the characters to the policeman who found them a hotel, to the abandoned amusement park, the mail boat, and the drive back to Eugene with Duck sitting in the side yard of a soldier of fortune.