Big Bob, Float Boat and the Big Chill

I try to write stories that are warm and hopefully a little humorous. For this one you might want to bundle up in a coat and hat. This story is downright chilly. That’s why I call it…

Big Bob, Float Boat and the Big Chill

My father loved an adventure. His unspoken goal was to see everything in life. A lunch with him could expand to an afternoon and a 45 minute drive to check a tombstone for his genealogy studies. On Sunday afternoons, even in his mid 80’s, he loved to load up his Chevy Surburban with Tommy Hardwick, Bob Reid and anyone else he could kidnap and drive all over Union, Chester and Lancaster Counties. To his credit he would often bring back an artisanal liver mush or his favorite delicacy, Union County hash. (Think of something between barbecue and stew) He never wanted to stop and even while he was under full time care at Westminister Towers, a doctor visit better include a drive through Wendy’s for a frosty.

His passion was the American West and in the 70’s and 80’s he would drive his motor home across the country to spend weeks in the places where his favorite movie cowboys roamed. His family was fortunate enough to get to travel with him and at least once, unfortunate enough to have to.

Every Thanksgiving, from the time his grandchildren came along, my father would rent a house at the beach. Sounds simple but this was Big Bob, founder of the feast, self-proclaimed and universally accepted paterfamilias. Dad never invited us to the beach on Thanksgiving, he summoned us. Don’t get me wrong. Going was a treat most years.

Sometimes one grandchild or another was going through a difficult rebellion but my sister Connie and I were under obligation to gather our broods and make a showing. Thankfully Connie’s husband, Steve and my wife, Cheryl, were able to keep us on the rails.

At Thanksgiving, Garden City Beach was usually a mild sixty-five degrees and comfortable enough for walks on the beach and trips to the flea market or to mother’s favorite, Big Lots. Mother was a dented can, bargain basement lover. She had learned to economize during the Great Depression when money was scarce and the lesson never left her. Even when she was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s, Mom loved to roam the aisles with Cheryl and Connie in tow. She believed that she was looking after them in the way she always had. Her difficulties would come later but for the great plantation tour she was in complete possession of her mother-hen self.

Somewhere Dad came across a brochure for a boat trip on the inland waterway in Georgetown. The tour promised water views of some of the old plantation houses along with beautiful scenes of coastal wildlife and the sights and smells of the marsh. Dolphins and alligators were a possibility…fun for the whole family! Just the thing for Dad’s adventurous spirit.

This particular Thanksgiving was colder than most but we shelved our misgivings, and decided to brave the boat trip. How bad could it be? We all dressed for a chilly adventure in coats or jackets, climbed into two cars, and headed south toward Georgetown. My alter-ego Boy Scout cautioned me to take a couple of extra knit toboggan caps and two pairs of gloves. Mom, who was always ready to protect her baby chicks, brought a couple of lap blankets and a bag of snacks.

When we arrived at the pier, we found that our cruise was aboard an open deck aluminum float boat. I forget the name but S.S.Minnow comes to mind. It was large enough to seat everyone but had no protection from the wind. We all knew at this point that the trip was ill advised but Big Bob’s enthusiasm brooked no complaints. We all climbed aboard and found our seats.

The skipper cast off the lines, took the helm and off we putted. The wind was not so bad as long as we stayed by the dock. The bench sets were aluminum, and thin plastic-covered flotation cushions provided little insulation and less comfort.

The situation took a steep downhill plunge as we left the little sheltered cove at the dock and motored into bigger water. The air was frigid, 35 to 38 degrees, and the movement of the boat produced a wind chill of somewhere around awful. I pulled out the toboggan caps and gave them to my son Case and Connie’s son Robbs who had taken up posts on the bow. Kate got one pair of gloves and shared a lap blanket with Mama Dot. Cheryl and I shared the other set of gloves, wearing one each and switching occasionally. Connie and Steve bundled up as best they could. Our good friend, Billy Davis had joined us that trip and I am sure he regretted it before this ship of fools found its way back to safe harbor.

Dad was wrapped up in his tan hunting coat with the collar up and sported a matching hunting hat. The rest of us were, within the first ten minutes, hoping he would throw in the towel. I really believe the captain, at the slightest suggestion, would have gratefully turned the boat around and refunded Dad’s money.

Mama Dot was worried about the little ones. She produced her signature plastic grocery bags from her purse and wrapped them around Kate’s feet to keep her as warm as possible. To ward off some of the chilly wind from herself, Mom searched through her purse until she found a thin plastic rain bonnet…one of those that folded up like a fan. The boys age seven and eight, were uncomplaining although their faces were burned red by the wind.

Our stoic captain pointed out plantations and their architectural period. He told us stories about their history and the families who lived in them. He pointed out shore birds and kept a lookout for dolphins. The dolphins were wise enough to stay home and only an alligator with a death wish would come out in that weather. I envied their judgement.

Then the mumbles began. Looks of “What the hell are we doing out here?” were passed around six of the adults. Dad looked grimly forward knowing he was facing the prospect of a mutiny. The mumbles grew to grumbles. Kate, eleven at the time, had to go to the bathroom and we thought the trip would end there. Surprise! There was a set of stairs at the back of the boat that led to a small toilet seat. Kate went down the stairs and after a few minutes, returned. For that action she was awarded the family medal of honor for bravery in the face of adverse conditions.

Mama Dot had put up with all she could. Once she pursed her lips and narrowed those jet-black eyes, we knew the misery would end soon.

“Bob, We need to take these children back and get them warm.” She said. Mom was fiercely protective of her progeny. It is my belief that before Dad could answer, the captain was already turning back. My mother had a look that would leave no room for debate. Dad nodded an “I guess you are right,” and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

Back on shore, we hustled into a nearby store to bring up our body temperatures and to take advantage of warm restrooms.

It was a quiet ride back to Garden City. The car heat was turned up to max and everybody was huddled for warmth.

We didn’t complain aloud to Dad during that holiday. Whether out of kindness or fear I don’t know, but his reprieve didn’t last. On every subsequent Thanksgiving beach trip, one of us would turn to Dad and say, “Nice day for a boat ride.”