Nice Gainer

I was wrapping up the laborious process of preparing for a journey such as the one I was about to embark on when my 17-foot Beavertail Skiff fell off the boat lift. I know it did because I was standing in it when it happened.

Once or twice per year, it has become a tradition for me to head out into the 10,000 Islands for a couple of days by myself. Initially, being alone wasn’t my intention, but none of my fishing compadres were interested. A short list to begin with, as there are but a few souls I would consider partaking in such an outing. I didn’t need anyone to hold my hand, so alone I went. Since then, it has become somewhat of a tradition, my annual walkabout, my “solo,” spiritual recharging, and homage to Gods of the Everglades.

It appeared as if I would miss it this year, as I usually go mid-winter. However, Easter weekend presented perfect conditions and an opportunity. The wind finally laid down, and the evening temperature was still a little cooler than the average household, the calm before the insect storm. Anyone who has been stranded somewhere inundated with no-see-ums understands the significance of this. If hell is worse, I should consider repenting for a lifetime of excesses and debauchery. 

The lift, although adequate capacity, is better suited for personal watercraft than it is a flats boat. Although with a few modifications, it works just fine and has for the combined five years I’ve kept a vessel the size of mine in it. However, the wooden bunks are positioned so that a boat with a beam width such as mine leans slightly to the left, sometimes more than others, making it seem unstable. Thus, I formulated a habit of walking around gingerly and making soft movements. I’ve never even come close to tipping over.

Common practice is to remove the plugs after loading a boat, whether onto a trailer or lift, allowing water that the bilge may have missed to drain. The plugs stay out until the next trip so that the hull doesn’t accumulate moisture, especially from the freshwater washdowns saltwater boats go through. However, unbeknownst to me, in my infinite wisdom, I had forgotten to take the plugs out following my last outing. Therefore, water from two full wash downs, plus one or two rain events, was sitting in the hull, concentrated on the leaning left side. 

Cognizant of the hazard, yet ignorant of the extra water weight, I made a point not to step too far on that side as I directed the stream of water towards the port bow, pushing the last of the suds over the edge. A catastrophe was the furthest thing from my mind as I watched the bubbles fall and listened to the tinkle of the water below, oblivious of the grave danger upon me and that my reaction in the following fraction of a second would ultimately determine my fate.

The port side rolled on its x-axis 90 degrees and fell off of the lift, like a trap door opening beneath me, dumping me into the water. “This isn’t going to be good for anybody,” I thought as the brisk water took my breath. 

There wasn’t time to think. My brain registered that the volume of space required for the mass that had to occupy it was less than the sum of the two masses - my boat and myself. The point where the dock and seawall met formed a triangle, with the “A” leg being the only way out towards the canal and deeper water - which was the direction I was headed when the boat rolled over onto my shoulders, a heavy “thud” pushing me into the sandy bottom. 

The craft's weight in the water reduced the impact to a violent push as opposed to blunt force trauma. The buoyancy prevented the hull from pinning me to the surface, allowing me to swim from under it. I dog-paddled around in shock, looking to see if there had been a witness. Nobody was around; nobody saw the event; everything was quiet. I swam to the seawall and managed to climb up at mid-tide, not an easy feat. The cuts on my hands, arms, feet, and legs from the barnacles are proof.

Some say that I have bad luck. Saying that I don’t concur at times would be slightly untrue. Although, when broken down to the total number of risky activities divided by the number of “bad luck” events, the ratio is appropriate – theoretically speaking, as the divisor is a considerable number. As a humble critic, I will admit that if near misses were a category, I couldn’t say the same. 

I’ve partaken in more dangerous endeavors than the average person since the 80s growing up as a skater. Not a skateboarder, but a skater – there’s a difference. One doesn’t progress at the sport without being able to compartmentalize fear. No guts, no glory became a mantra. 

Being a skater was more than riding a board with wheels. It was an attitude. Anti-establishment with a seething opposition to authority; we were athletes not governed by groups, teams, leagues, or coaches, yet athletes, nonetheless. Before the modern age of skateparks, skateboarding was a crime. If there was an obstacle worthy of skating, we skated it. No trespassing signs we were blind to; security guards we ran from; and in police stations and college security offices we sat. Like it or not, taking risks is part of my DNA.

“I don’t want to not live because of my fear of what could happen.” 

Laird Hamilton 

Jon Edward Edwards is a local author and avid sportsman.