The Dingbat's Revenge

The First Mate has never had kind words for The Dingbat. Their antagonistic relationship started with their very first meeting on the boat ramp off Shelter Island in San Diego in 2006. That is where we took delivery of our new dinghy and motor. To The First Mate, these acquisitions were initially an unexciting dinghy and engine purchase, non-menacing and benign, until she found herself in the boat, all alone, and supposedly in control. The Captain had gone off to a meeting on another boat leaving her alone with the delivery person who was to teach her the intricacies of starting the engine and steering it out and about. The introduction starts off on the wrong foot when stepping onto the slippery slope-sided floor of the dinghy, she is promptly upended. (We now have additional non-skid strategically placed, but did not then.) The delivery person first shows her how to start the engine. Just a few steps. Looks easy. Then he takes her for a spin showing her which direction to turn the arm of the motor. Little does this guy know about The First Mate’s physics issues. This is all counterintuitive. Right goes left, left goes right. Up is down, down is up. This is not going to work, sir, but we’ll give it a try. Try she does, and it is a mess. We go in circles. Instead of slowing down, it nearly turns turtle as she blasts it off into the open sea. It does not take long for the delivery guy to realize he has a lost cause on his hands, and all he now wants to do is get back to the dock and out of there as inconspicuously and as quickly as possible. It just happens to be Saturday morning, and the boat ramp is filled with weekend fisher people launching their boats to head out to catch the Big One. This “audience”, which The First Mate had not asked for, is mostly men, most of whom are into their first beers of the morning, and they are having an amusing time watching this spectacle. At my expense! I am not pleased.

Returning to the dock, The First Mast slowly angles in to make a landing. At the last moment, instead of turning the control in the direction to slow it down further, she twists it the wrong way (right way to her logic). The dinghy careens into the dock and because it is a rubber inflatable after all, it bounces off at a weird angle. Mortified and angry, she accomplishes a 540-degree turn and heads back to the dock. Not wishing to tempt Fate a second time, she lets the dinghy coast in slowly – painfully slowly. The delivery guy just as slowly and carefully reaches out, grabs onto a piece of dock and hops on land faster than he had probably ever moved in his life. The First Mate does the natural thing and turns off the engine, which happens to be the easiest thing to do on this contraption. All one has to do is push a button, and the engine disconnects. Unfortunately, she now has to restart it so she can motor out and around to another dock to pick up The Captain. It sounded so easy when the delivery guy had earlier explained how to start the thing. Now, nothing is easy. Does the choke go in or out? Do I even use the choke? Which way is neutral? Which direction do I engage the motor once it starts? To me, forward is backward: backward is forward. This is all Greek to me! To the delivery guy’s credit, he has not made a hasty retreat. He stays to re-explain engine start-up. I now have everything in position. All I have to do is pull the start cord out smartly. I pull, and I pull. I try different angles, straight back, straight up. My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. I’ve worked up a sweat, and the engine will not even sputter. I am ready to tell this delivery person to take the whole thing back and bring me something with a key. Turn it, and it starts. That’s it. Taking pity, he climbs back in and with one good yank on that cord, the engine turns over smartly for him. Why not for me?

Now she is in the dinghy all alone about to take her maiden voyage out into the harbor and around to the dock where The Captain is waiting to be picked up. Somehow we spasmodically motor away from the dock and out the boat ramp launching area into the open harbor without hitting another thing. She refuses to look at or acknowledge even a one of the bug-eyed, pot-bellied, grinning fisherpeople out there watching. We are now out in the open, and we have to go f-o-r-e-v-e-r before there is another opening into the sheltered area where The Captain awaits. The waves are bumpy and lumpy. The dinghy’s rocking is unnerving and unpredictable to The inexperienced First Mate. Again she mistakenly guns the engine. This 8-cylindar engine has more power than she can handle. Nearly dumped in the ocean again, she reduces speed to a crawl, really just above a stall. It takes 45 minutes for her to do what should be a 10-minute run. She is scared, mad, embarrassed and doesn’t want anything to do with this –-- this --- this dingy thing ---this Dingbat! That’s it – The Dingbat is christened.

When she finally reaches a thoroughly perplexed Captain who had been kept waiting beyond what he considered a reasonable time, she has no concern for his plight. She tells him to grab the line because the boat will not stop on its own. Then she vents on and on about this miserable Dingbat with its slippery, sloping sides and its unwieldy, unworkable engine. Looking at his beautiful new dinghy and its shiny, new powerful engine with added-on wings to plain the boat upward out of the water, he wonders who is the dingbat in this whole sad scenario. Nevertheless, the name sticks. The Dingbat is collectively the name we use for the dingy and its engine.

The Captain and The Dingbat work together like a team. Music, nay symphonies, play when they are together. It starts for him. It maneuvers for him. It practically purrs for him and obeys his every command. For The First Mate and The Dingbat, initial antipathy slowly settles into mutual tolerance. She tolerates The Dingbat out of necessity, and The Dingbat tolerates her only to please The Captain.

Life goes on like this as we sail up to and thru The San Juan and Gulf Islands, into the remote reaches of British Columbia and north to Alaska. The “landing the dinghy at a dock” exercise is somewhat mastered, though starting the engine remains a 50-50 proposition. The Captain and The First Mate experiment with and find a workable system for raising and lowering The Dingbat into the water from the bow of Avante where it is stored, but a constant source of contention for which they have no great answer is the “haul the dinghy onto and off the beach” exercise. The scene goes like this: They motor into shore until they get into shallow water, remembering to tilt the engine upward so that the propeller does not hit any rocks or get stuck in the sand. Stepping into the cold water of the Northwest, they each grab a side and haul The Dingbat toward shore and out of any tide’s hungry grasp. This works fine as long as The Dingbat is afloat, but once aground, The Captain discovers that there is no way The First Mate can lift her half of the 200lb combined weight of dinghy and motor. She lifts and strains. The Captain cannot understand why she cannot carry her half of the load. Not for the first time, she wonders what he thinks he married. When he finally accepts that all forward motion has come to a standstill, The Captain comes up with Plan B – something he maintains that a captain must always have at his fingertips. He moves The First Mate to the bow of the dinghy where she is told to lift when he is ready. He moves to the stern of the dinghy and straddles the engine. On the command of lift, The First Mate lifts and awkwardly steps backward while The Captain lifts and does a more awkward sort of duck waddle with the motor and all its sharp edges between his legs. This is far from a smooth operation. In fact, they look and feel downright ridiculous, but at least they have a system for hauling The Dingbat across the beach. For The First Mate this indignity is just one more ding to add to her Dingbat dislike list. If she could kick the thing without getting hurt she would!

Upon returning to San Diego and in preparation for Mexico’s sandy beaches and turbulent surf landings that await us, The Captain arrives at the dock one day with new equipment for The Dingbat. WHEELS! The Dingbat is enraged. This is unthinkable! Talk about humiliation! Wheels attached to a dinghy? How undignified! This just cannot be happening, but it does. Metal supports are drilled and screwed into its stern, and these oversized, fat, ugly wheels are attached. Wheels to support the over-weight Dingbat as we more gracefully pull it onto the beach or back to the surf. Wheels to protect the engine and prop from rocks as we head to and from shore in the shallow waters. The First Mate had wanted these wheels when they first purchased The Dingbat. She moaned and pleaded for them every time she had to haul the thing, but The Captain would not hear of it. In cahoots with The Dingbat, he did not think they were appropriate attire for a dinghy. They were for the weak – not for he and his dinghy. Now he has been talked into them by people who have been to Mexico and know what they are talking about. Wheels we have. The First Mate is delighted. The Captain is resigned to the necessity. The Dingbat is out for REVENGE! How dare he? The battle has started. These wheels must go.

The main problem with beach landings and take-offs in Mexico is the roughness of the surf. We are told that there is a certain knack and skill required. Practice is the key, and taking time to study the wave pattern helps, too. It takes teamwork. Captain, First Mate and The Dingbat need to work together, and guess who isn’t working? Not The First Mate. That’s for sure. Her regular dousings and black and blues attest to that. Not The Captain. He studies how the local fishermen launch their pangas into the surf and analyses the wave patterns. It can only be The Dingbat. Having lost all pride with the addition of those wheels, it has no more left to lose. With purpose, it turns sideways to the waves, dipping and careening menacingly in an attempt to swamp itself. With perfect timing, it stalls the engine at the worst possible moments. Landings are aborted repeatedly as it dislodges a wheel just when that wheel is most needed to support the boat and protect the engine. Looking back, the detached wheel will be floating away in the surf requiring a mad scramble. For The Captain, this continuing show of what he considers ineptitude is more than he can tolerate. The dinghy, the engine, the wheels, the surf – all have him furious, but he will not be flummoxed. “Captain, you asked for it,” thinks The Dingbat. Seeing his frustration is almost revenge enough.

After sailing Avante south from San Diego to Puerto Vallarta, we returned to Telluride at the end of February for a very short 4 weeks of winter snow fun. With granddaughter, Berlin, in for her Spring break, the three of us ski the mountain, hike the ranch and toast marshmallows in the evening.

At the end of March we return to Puerto Vallarta, restock Avante and set sail heading northwest to the Sea of Cortez. Our first stop is Punta Mita. The next day we round the point having now discovered that that third rock we agonizingly sailed 20 miles around on our way into Banderas Bay last January is more myth than fact. It was reported out there somewhere ages ago. No one has been able to find it since, even using more sophisticated sounding equipment; yet no one wants to take credit for saying it physically is not there. Thus the warnings persist. First timers to the area are on guard until they have the opportunity to talk to locals in the know. Then like we now do, they sail safely around the point keeping 2 miles off shore.

We head up the coast to Chacala. Site of a once producing coconut-growing operation, the pretty beach is ringed with tall palm trees. Several colorful palapa restaurants sit invitingly on the shore. The First Mate feels strongly that we support these small establishments operating in the middle of nowhere. Though she prefers a brisk morning beach walk followed by breakfast in a local restaurant, we chose to go in for dinner since we need to make an early morning departure the next day. At dusk, we launch The Dingbat and head ashore. There is a panga dock not far from the main beach, but The Captain opts for a surf landing. The Dingbat is deployed, as usual, with the wheels sticking straight up from the stern. This is to keep the wheels out of the way of the prop when underway. According to The Captain, this makes The Dingbat look like an “elephant turned turtle”, a comment that The Dingbat will never forgive.

Shortly before reaching the waves that would pull us onto the beach, The Captain cuts the engine to lower the wheels. This takes a bit of effort as the bulky, buoyant tires do not easily push down into the water. Secured in their slots, the engine is restarted. Now -- study the waves, find the lull, charge the beach, hit the sand, jump into the surf keeping a grip on the boat and yank it ashore before The Dingbat has a chance to knock you over. The trick is to not get so wet that you look like a drowned rat when you walk into a restaurant for dinner. This time we make a great landing. All that is wet is our Keen sandals, which is as it should be. The Dingbat is hauled up the beach and left to stew while we enjoy a pleasant meal.

The First Mate observes at dinner that The Captain seems somewhat distracted as he keeps watching the sea. “That one would have gotten us. It wasn’t part of the pattern,” he says mostly to himself. “What would have gotten us? What pattern?” queries The First Mate. “The waves,” he replies. “I am watching the wave pattern. There’s 3 short ones followed by a real slammer. Then there’s a lull. It’s the lull we have to catch getting out of here, but that wave earlier was a big one that did not fit the pattern. It’s those rogues that get us.” The Captain is surely becoming too obsessed with this!

With heavy cloud cover blocking the moon, we walk back to The Dingbat in total blackness with only a small flashlight to show us the way. We turn the boat around and stand there in the dark counting waves. Here’s the lull, grab the boat, dash into the surf, haul ourselves aboard (not easy), start the engine and motor the heck out to sea before the big one gets you. We do all that. The engine starts. It roars to life. Feeling triumphant, The Captain turns the throttle to motor on out and thru the waves. The engine stalls. Dead, silent. The Captain is beside himself with frustration. The First Mate, knowing when to remain silent, does not say a word. Then, out of the dark as if from nowhere, the big one hits slamming right over the bow of the boat smack into The First Mate’s unsuspecting face. The Captain commands The First Mate to take the flashlight which she grasps for in the darkness, temporarily blinded by stinging salt watered-eyes. He jumps out of the boat in an attempt to hold it into the waves so The Dingbat can’t turn sideways to the waves and get swamped. Over the sounds of the pounding surf, The Captain yells at The First Mate to start the engine. Sure thing, Captain. She scrambles back, adding another bruise or two to already blossomed black and blues, grabs the cord with two hands and yanks for all she’s worth. Of course, nothing happens, but what is that graceful arch of light that just flew over our heads? In amazement and disbelief, we watch our flashlight sail out to sea. The only thing accomplished when The First Mate pulled the start cord was a launching of the flashlight she held in one of her hands. Losing the flashlight is almost as bad as getting swamped, for without the flashlight, we will not be able to see the combination lock to open up Avante so we can get below deck. We’ll be stuck in the cockpit until dawn! Off The Captain swims to retrieve the flashlight leaving The First Mate marooned in the wildly tossing boat. Back aboard, The Captain yells to unstrap the oars. Since he can’t start the engine, he will row out of here. We are being slammed by waves, rocking back and forth, miserably wet. The only mercifully good thing is that in the total blackout against an equally black sea no one can see this circus act. In the dark, we both go for the same oar, pulling and twisting, we work against each other trying to free the same oar. It’s a “Laurel and Hardy” act. Timing is everything. We have to get out of this surf before we are upended and swamped. Arguing back and forth over who has which oar, he finally takes one oar to free, and she takes the other. Both oars are in place, and The Captain rows for all he’s worth to get us out of the surf. Once free of the waves, he turns back to the engine. Unable to do us any more damage, The Dingbat allows the engine to start, and we splutter back to Avante.

The First Mate, once safely and securely aboard Avante, finds the caper rather funny. The Captain does not. He is fuming. It matters not that other boat people also have trouble with dinghy launchings here in Mexico. Not he. First he has to figure out what is wrong with the engine? It has been causing him start-up problems since we left San Diego. (The Dingbat knows.) Next he will work out how to manage and anticipate this surf and wave action. He will not be stymied.

Silently floating on the gentle waves lapping against its hull, The Dingbat hears The Captain’s angry exclamations, savoring each and every frustrated word. Revenge is sweet. The Battle against The Wheels will continue.