//THE TWO MARGARETS//
Saltwater spray came clear across the bow, over the windshield and into my grinning face. My knuckles were white from gripping the seat so tightly, chest straining against the tiny orange life vest cinched around me. Pop Pop veered into an oncoming wave. My grin widened and I let out a yelp. I was 3 years old and having the time of my life!
The boat – 20 feet of gleaming mahogany, polished chrome and loudly grumbling motor – hit the wave and was airborne for a few seconds. Splash! We hit the water hard, the sudden pressure jolting us in our seats. Mom Mom gave Pop Pop a “You’d better be careful” look. Mom just shook her head. She knew her dad was showing off for his grandson.
There are pictures from that afternoon, but I remember vividly the unphotographed views I saw through the windshield, the sound of the large-block 8 rumbling from inside its box, the smell of salty air mixed with gasoline. I recall Pop Pop let me “steer” while I sat on his lap. Certainly it was a bang-up way to start my love affair with boats and water.
Every summer when I’d visit the island, I’d run across the street to the dock. For many years I had to stand on a cinder block to peer into the boat house windows. There she’d be – covered in old quilts, swaying gently in the breeze. One glimpse rekindled the whoooosh of my first ride and the desire to repeat it.
After Pop Pop died in 1980, the boat and its watery perch were no longer maintained to his standards, which means birds eventually found their way inside. The boat itself, while courted by several suitors during the years (some of them relatives), never found a new owner. Mom Mom knew how much the boat was worth and wouldn’t take a penny off the asking price.
She also knew Pop Pop would have wanted the boat given to someone who would care for it as he had. But it took years for me – his only grandson – to reach a point where I could do anything with it, much less give it a good home.
Time was running out. The once thick, wooden pilings supporting the boat house were being slowly whittled by the tides to mere toothpicks. There was a growing hole in the roof, which allowed sun, rain, snow and even more birds to compound the neglect. I feared that wind gusts from the next nor’easter would give the boat a burial at sea. But that storm never came.
We planned a rescue mission for November 2000, taking a week off from work. Using the generosity of friends on the island, I had the boat’s length and beam (that’s width for you landlubbers) measured so we could find a trailer. We packed up the truck, new trailer in tow, and motored to Virginia.
The boat was OK when we arrived. With some friendly help, a bit of luck and no doubt some heavenly help, we found a way to manually lower the boat without disturbing an ancient electric hoist. The wooden hull kissed the water, then bobbed gently, appearing to take on no water. The next step in the plan was to tow her to the town dock, where my truck and trailer would be waiting.
Mom Mom was in her house, apparently going crazy at the sight of people working on the dock. She had forgotten about her blessing to rescue Pop Pop’s boat, given to me just the day before. But my wife explained calmly to her each time she started to freak out that it was me and I was saving the boat. Back at the boat house, we were ready to head out into the bay.
My second ride in the boat, 23 years after the first, was just as memorable.
I stood proudly at the stern, doing my best to avoid the accumulation of dust and bird poop. Waves lapped against the wooden hull with resonating plops. Diners at a waterfront restaurant watched, spoons full of chowder halfway to their mouths, as we paraded past.
Once at the dock, it took but a few swings of the boat, guided by ropes at each corner, to float easily onto the trailer. I secured the winch strap to the bow ring and reeled it in until the chrome cutwater rested firmly against the trailer’s rubber stopper. I put the truck into four wheel drive to thwart the slickness of the boat ramp, and eased the trailered craft from the water. Then we drove the narrow Main Street through downtown to get to back where we were staying.
Mom Mom’s man-friend had taken her to dinner while the rescue was nearing its end. He had chosen one of their favorite places ... downtown. We passed them as they were exiting his car. The fact that she didn’t notice us was just short of miraculous. Keep in mind they were both in their 80s, failing eyesight and all. But this boat had been part of her life for a long time. Not noticing us made life easier.
A few days later, the trip home began. It was slow – you try hauling 2,500 pounds of antique speedboat from Virginia to Texas – but fun. We got a few excited looks and honks from passersby. While stopping for gas once, a guy followed us off the highway to the station for a closer look at the boat.
Finally, we made it home. I backed the boat behind our fence and threw a tarp over it. Eventually we built a detached garage to protect the boat and to store the yard-taming essentials of suburban life.
My priorities now lie in spending lots of time with my family and fixing up our living quarters. I might be an old man by the time I get around to restoring the boat; maybe it will be in time to take my grandchild out for a spin.
But I sure hope it’s sooner. My son is not even 4 months old, so the chances of him marrying and having a child are a long, long way off.
*********
About the time we returned home, Mom was conducting a different kind of rescue mission.
It had become crystal clear that Mom Mom wasn’t able to care for herself anymore. She’d be the last person to admit it, but she needed nearly constant supervision for her own safety. Her symptoms were similar to early onset Alzheimer’s.
Mom packed some of Mom Mom’s clothes in a suitcase, stuck it in her trunk, and told my grandmother they were going on a trip to Texas. To make the trip more manageable, Mom had gotten a prescription for a mild sedative to help Mom Mom enjoy the long drive a bit more.
The trip went as smoothly as possible, taking nearly a week to cover the 2,000-mile distance at a leisurely pace.
In the meantime, my dad and sister loaded up the motorhome with some of Mom Mom’s familiar things: the rug in her living room, a carved wooden screen, a few treasured trinkets. They reached Texas in three quick-fire days in order to set up Mom Mom’s new room at their house before she arrived.
Anyone who’s played caretaker for an aging relative knows the pitfalls. Past a certain point, it’s in everyone’s best interests for the elder family member to receive professional care. When that time came for Mom Mom, there were the inevitable heartaches and headaches. The guilt Mom felt for putting her there was countered only by how my grandmother seemed to flourish.
Well, flourish as a woman in her 80s can do. She stopped talking every day about going home to the island. She’s made friends. She eats regularly, gets some exercise and has 24-hour access to medical care. Mom’s guilt is waning.
Mom Mom was born in a small shack on the island. Her family built a larger house and moved across the street. Pop Pop’s service in World War II took her to California, New York City and Washington, D.C. After the war, during which Pop Pop served in the Pacific, they moved back to the island and built a house next to her second childhood home. I find it amazing she lived most of her years on the same block.
But times were different then. And the lure of the island, considering her entire family was there also, must have been strong. It’s something I can relate to. Most of those family members are long gone. Still, I wish I was there now.
Pop Pop bought the boat second-hand in 1939, renaming it after his bride. Both his Margarets were rescued from some of the dangers they faced. One, the inanimate wooden watercraft, will one day be returned to its former glory and renamed to reflect the name of the current owner’s bride.
The other, made comfortable for as long as she remains on Earth, will someday see her husband again, in a place much different than the one they both left behind.
