“If you saw a heat wave…..would you wave back?”

-Steven Wright

It’s that time of the year. We’re all complaining about it. Hot and windless days, tepid blue water all the way to the beach, water which offers no escape from the hellish heat. Some sailboats are going out there, but their sails hang flaccid on the boom and headstay. It is a time to give the iron genny a workout.

This weekend we pretty much tried to stay out of the broiling day. On Saturday we bought the twins a little motorized hang glider model at Harbor Freight Tools, one of my newest favorite hangouts. Harbor Freight is a hodge-podge of cheap Chinese tools, interspersed with some real bargains, and the girls found this flying toy, a motorized hang glider model which they just had to have.

We put the thing together on Saturday night, and Sunday morning went to the big grassy field in Isla Blanca Park, by the boat to fly it. Instructions called for flying in winds under 10mph, and of course if conditions were not ideal for sailing, they certainly were for flying….

Now, being a duly licensed aircraft mechanic (in another life), the girls wanted me to do the test flights. I explained to them how all things that fly, birds, airplanes and the like all take off and land into the wind. The first several flights were dismal failures. Like the Wright brothers, I was not to be daunted by this infernal flying machine, and so I made some adjustments to the Rogallo sail, gave the electric motor the maximum 2 minute charge, and launched the airplane into the pathetic and impotent breath of breeze languishing from the east…..

It headed straight for the trailers on the east side of the field, and for a moment I thought it might crash into them, or maybe fly out over the open Gulf of Mexico. Executing a graceful turn, the tiny machine took off downwind, gaining altitude. Up over palm trees and across roads it flew. The girls galloped off in a run as I lost sight of it heading towards the Laguna Madre.

An hour of stomping around in waist deep weeds and grass and no sign of the wayward flying machine. Last we saw of it, it was heading towards the Coast Guard station. Remembering the song 99 Luftballons, I half expected the Coasties to scramble the gunboat and maybe call in a Helicopter, citing a violation of national security, a suspected terrorist attack, and so we slinked out of the area and over to ‘Div to cool off.

The A/C barely kept up with the pounding heat above, on the deck. The girls watched DVD’s and we dozed in a state of near animal estavation. I was aroused from my stupor by the infernal cell phone. It was Captain Sean, and he was returning from a sail in Galveston Bay, motor sailing now. They too had run out of wind. I explained to him that it would be suicide for us to even go out there, and returned to my delirium.

Around 1600 we decided to get cooled off, and discussed going to the beach, or maybe Shitterballs waterpark. A suggestion was made to putt out, and anchor off of Children’s Beach, maybe fish and swim. After a long debate, we finally arrived at a consensus.

Fine.

In the oppresive heat, I stowed the big fat yellow shore power cord on the dock, put away a few things down below and got the boat ready to get underway under motor while D and Savannah went for supplies.

We slipped out of our slip heading for the harbor entrance. Outside there was the faintest hint of a breeze, a welcome change, but barely enough to stir up a little kitty paw on the clear blue water as we chugged towards the south end of the island.

Downwind of the dayboard, I gave the signal to drop the hook, and like a bunch of pros we did so. I figured I had the bow into the wind, and never looked to see what the water was doing. Mistake one. I’ll blame it on the heat, and frying brain cells. We let out about 40 feet of chain rode in six feet of water.

And the hook didn’t even catch.

I’m soaking a 35 pound spade, and can’t figure out why it isn’t hanging…….

Then it dawns on me….the tide is sucking OUT.

HARD.

Past the dayboard we shoot, and when the rode tightens up Olivia jerks to a stop. Oh no….Lord no….Please no…..don’t let the hook be snagged on one of the platforms legs. We immediately get on the windless and start cranking it up, the twins fending off our starboard side from the dayboard structure. Finally we are over the hook, which does not appear to be caught on the piling.

Then I remember.

A few years back I was pulling a trawl through this area with a marine biology class and hung on a snag. Donning scuba gear, I dove down and found a mass of twisted metal on the murky bottom about 20 feet below. It took awhile to extract that mess, not to mention toothy critters, but that’s another story….

"Please don’t let us be hung on that"  I moan as malevolent visions of diving down there cross my tortured brain.

Without warning the hook frees and up it comes all covered with fishing line, rope and other garbage. A classic bottom experience. We clean the mess up, throw it away, stow the anchor back in the roller and steam north up near the Coastal Studies Lab water intake, where we drop the spade again in about 10 feet of water, maybe 50 yards from shore. This time we do it right, and the anchor digs securely as I back down gently on it, and we shut down.

The girls fish for a bit, and I cool off in the water off of the stern. We make sandwiches and drinks, and I lay against the dingy under the boom using it as a backrest on the shady side, watching the people fishing on the shoreline who are watching us. The day is waning, and big power boats are coming in, some roaring in from the Ladies Kingfish tournament being held on the Island. Some blast us with wake, but of course the good old spade hangs secure.

Later, the twins do cannonballs off of the stern, and the afternoon passes placidly. As the sun starts to drop we haul up the anchor without incident, motoring back, D at the helm. In the harbor I take the boat and we glide effortlessly into the slip, quickly tying off, leaving things pretty much lying around and hurry over to Shitterballs for the last half hour or so, rinsing off in the chlorinated water, cooling off.

Afterward, I wash and stow the chain rode and anchor, starting at the bowsprit and working back to the stern platform, giving ‘Div a thorough scrub down. As I am descending below decks to straighten up the house, I slip on the first step and mumble a vague curse. From the muelle a voice calls out asking me if I’m OK. Sheepishly I say “yea….but I gotta do something about these steps”. He asked me if I am the owner.

“Yep”.

“Well I noticed your boat and just wanted to tell you how beautiful she is”.

“Thank you”.

As always I am filled with pride, if not a bit humble for my own minor accomplishments with Olivia

Later, over beverages, I am discussing boats and how they are so unlike any other piece of machinery, be it wheeled or winged. Boats are as close to a living being as any flesh and blood organism. It is no wonder we bestow them with anthromechanical personality.

‘Div is a gentle souled individual, with an obsession for harmony. She just behaves out there, there is no petulance. That’s not to say she’s without spirit, and in the proper condition prances like a champion horse over wave and swell.

It is myself that is the clumsy counterpart, no kinda dancer, making mistake after mistake, but she responds forgivingly. I like to believe that intricate and vital pieces of the personality of her previous masters have permeated the glass, wood and metal that make up this classy old girl. They create a sum total that can not only be seen, but can also be felt, and that sum total passion remains within and without her lines, helping direct her journey.