Emergency retrieval of our red rug after Jeff shook it overboard. He had that trusty little dinghy inflated and in the water within 5 minutes.
I remember when we first saw you, dear dinghy. It was our first trip across the Puget Sound to visit my father in Indianola. We wanted to anchor out past the pier, but didn’t have a dinghy, so we moored at a marina on Bainbridge Island instead. When we told my father this his eyes gleamed.
“I wish you would have told me! I have just the thing for you!”
“What, do you have a dinghy?” I joked.
“I sure do. And if you want it, it’s yours.”
He had found you washed up on the shore. He figured you didn’t have an owner and that if he didn’t take you home during low tide, you would surely be carried back out to sea when the water came sweeping in.
My father deflated you and carried you home. He put you under his deck, where you stayed for a year, on a bluff, far from the water, without even a view.
When we saw you, you were covered in a thick layer of scum and dirt. It appears that you drifted for awhile on the Sound, by yourself, exploring the depths.
You had so much potential. We saw that potential. We sprayed you down, scrubbed away the scum and eagerly took you back to Serenity.
When we got home we started to include you in all of our future plans. You opened so many doors. We didn’t have to rely on docks anymore. The future travel possibilities were endless. Ifs turned to whens.
We hurried out and bought letters to adorn your side. Eager to make you our own. We thought the name The Ambassador suited you.
You were our trusty travel companion for four years, to the Puget Sound Peninsula, to the San Juan Islands, down the Washington Coast, on the Mighty Columbia, down the Oregon and California Coasts, all the way into Mexico.
At first we only had paddles. We would sit in your belly, on your ribs or on your sides and paddle furiously into shore. Jeff, being a lefty, would sit on the starboard side. Me, being a righty, would sit on your port side. Bigger dinghies, inflated hard as a drum, with actual benches and powerful outboard motors would run in circles around you, but we were proud of you. I won’t say we didn’t ogle other dinghies, but we knew that we didn’t need them so long as we had you. You were all we needed for awhile.
Eventually we invested in a small 2 horsepower outboard motor. This extended your range, and also made it easier to take you for a ride on the Columbia where the current can get carried away.
We beached you on sand, on rocks, on mud. In bays and estuaries. In saltwater and fresh. We tied you up to branches in small gunkholes while we went exploring. You were always there when we returned.
Over time your ribs began to crack and break. We had new ribs cut out of strong polycarbonate and replaced them one by one. Dry rot was beginning to weaken your transom so we filled it with thickened epoxy and put on a fresh coat of white paint. You looked sharp. Your name began to fall away, one letter at a time, and we let you remain nameless. It seemed that you preferred it that way.
As we prepared for a life of cruising, we began to think about all the things we would need you for – hauling groceries, water, laundry, fuel. We acquired new toys – folding bikes – and imagined a future where we would need a dinghy to bring them to shore. We started to look around for other, bigger dinghies that could carry all of our stuff. Shocked by the price of other boats, we got to thinking that maybe you could do the job we needed just fine. We aborted and then resumed the search several times. After months of intermittently trolling craigslist, we found a twenty six year old port-a-bote that needed some tender loving care, like you did. For $80 we couldn’t pass it up.
We turned our attention to the port-a-bote, cleaning her up, rebuilding her rotted out seats, patching holes, gluing fun noodles to her hull to increase buoyancy. You may have felt threatened, but we could never replace you. You were so easy to fill up, you fit so nicely on our small deck, even when you were less than full you carried us safely to shore.
For a little lady you were tough. When the current across the Strait of Juan De Fuca ripped you from our boat and filled you with water, you were brave. We attached a halyard to you and lifted you out of the water. You were as heavy as a bathtub. We swore we would never trail you behind us like that again, but we had a hard time keeping that promise.
In Shelter Cove we thought it was safe to leave you tied up. We weren’t expecting the southerlies and waves that pounded us that night. Names of places can be deceptive on the Pacific. We had left the oars in your belly and the motor on your transom. I was worried about you so I went out to check on you in the middle of the night. One of your chambers was deflated, you were filling with water, the oars were gone and the outboard was sinking. Despite the odds, you remained afloat. We hoisted you in the dark as Serenity pitched back and forth, yanking the mooring ball. We rolled you up and nestled you safely in your spot by the mast. I thought you were injured, which left me with a feeling of remorse. Luckily, we found out in Fort Bragg you were perfectly intact. You held air like a champ.
We swore that that was the last time, but inevitably, enough time passes that the rawness of pain and frustration subsides. We got lazy.
In San Francisco we started to worry that we might lose you. That someone with unfulfilled dreams of being on the sea would take you away from us. We went in search of chain. We bought 40 feet of thick chain and started to lock you up when we went to shore. You were our quick link to life onshore. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.
When we arrived on Cedros Island after four days at sea off of the Mexican Coast, we inflated you, eager for tacos, beer and the sensation of walking. When we left early the next morning for Turtle Bay we didn’t take the time to put you away. The wind wasn’t supposed to exceed 18 knots according to our five day old grib sheet. We should know by now not to trust the weather report, especially an old one. The wind howled at 35 knots, right on our nose, and whipped up some frothy seas. You stuck with us, you endured.
That night, though safe at anchor, the wind and waves were still strong. I let out some line so that you wouldn’t have to bash into our transom all night. I couldn’t fall asleep. The wind was so loud and I was concerned that our anchor might drag. I wasn’t worried about you, but I should have been. At 2am I had a sinking feeling. I knew, before looking, that we had lost you. When I pointed my headlight at the backstay where I tied you up, you were gone. Quickly I plugged in the spotlight, hoping that you would still be close, hoping that your rope got snagged on something nearby. I was frantic. I couldn’t find you in the dark.
I sat in bed for an hour worrying, crying softly to myself, cursing my inability to tie good, solid knots. Losing you meant losing mobility, something that I have come to cherish. Jeff tried to console me by reminding me that we still have the port-a-bote, but she can be clunky and difficult to assemble. I set my alarm for sunrise so I could search the horizon for you in daylight.
When daylight came I couldn’t find you. I used binoculars. I took zoomed in photos of the bay and zoomed them in further on the computer. We trolled around the edge of the bay. I voiced a passionate plea over the radio to anyone that might come across you.
A weather window opened…it was time to leave. We left without you.
In my heart of hearts I always knew that you were a creature of the sea. You wanted to be afloat, on your own time, taking the currents to foreign shores. Every time you tried to break free, we would find you, save you and bring you back on board.
I’d like to think that you enjoyed being domesticated for awhile. I’d like to think that you enjoyed the relative comfort of being cared for and stowed away, carried to new destinations in our company. I’d like to think you enjoyed being loved and cherished and used for your intended purpose. But the time had clearly come for you to fly solo again. You were never meant to be owned, just accompanied. Maybe we were just your ticket to Mexico. Maybe all this time you just wanted to hitch a ride south.
So long dear little dinghy. May you find what you’re looking for on the sea. And when you tire of traveling, may some lucky soul find you, clean you up, love you and bring you on many great adventures.