My Dad owns a speed boat, which is older than me by MANY years. And the very bright green vessel breaks down EVERY time we take it out. Literally every time. My Dad refuses to get rid of this boat though, as it was his favorite uncle’s boat. The boat is named the Green Demas and is quite famous in the family.
I’m pretty sure we’re quite famous in all of Illinois, to be honest.
I could probably write a daily blog about the Green Demas with the number of stories I have. One story involves us breaking down and my Dad forcing my brother to attempt to SWIM and PULL the boat to shore (and no, we’re Greek, not Polish), and another where we took the boat tubing on Lake Michigan on the foggiest day in the history of man and almost killed my then-boyfriend (he almost got run over by another boat). We’ve also drifted aimlessly in the middle of several different lakes year after year. Yet we still only have ONE paddle on the boat. And my Dad continues to tow it around and have it break down. I call him Tinkerbell, as he is quite adept at tinkering, spraying, lubing, etc. to get the boat finally started again. But hey, it’s a boat.
This particular story once again involves my good luck. My Dad is a very smart man. But he’s rather impulsive and impatient.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
One sunny summer day we were out on a lake somewhere in Wisconsin. My brother was all prepared to go water skiing. As we were getting the equipment situated we realized the rope had frayed, making it near impossible to latch onto the boat.
However, it seemed that not water skiing was not going to be an option. My Dad looked at me and said, “That’s alright, Leigh can hold the rope.” I flexed and agreed that yes, I would have no problem holding the rope.
Seriously. I’m. A. Moron.
So my brother jumps in the lake and expertly slips on his skis and we throw him the rope. My Dad hands the other end to me and I STAND at the back of the boat to brace myself. As my Dad is about to hit the gas, my Mom comes to from her beauty nap and screams, “No Mike! You’re going to kill her!”
“Oh she’ll be fine,” my Dad said with a wave of his hand. As I put 1 and 1 together, I realized that the end result of me trying to hold onto a rope pulling a water skier would equate to me being flung into the motor. I dropped the rope and ran to the front of the boat in fear.
I would make for a pretty hot amputee, though!
First of all, I think my Dad has a death wish for me. Second of all, apparently I do as well. Why would I agree to such a stupid idea as to HOLD a rope pulling a 150-pound man around a lake? I mean, I’m no Jack LaLanne. The only six pack I’m familiar with involves the brewing and fermentation of malted barley or wheat and flavored with hops.