A Lesson from a Boat Ramp

Boyhood in Florida was a collage of Saturday sunrises and bang-o-lures.

As I type this, voices and visages float behind my eyes. My Grandad’s thin, calloused fingers loop the line into a cozy knot. Conway Twitty overpowers our Ford’s paltry speakers on the ten-minute drive to the lake. My tackle-free tackle box. Flip-flops squeaking a hurried cadence when Dad says, “You boys climb aboard.”

Every Saturday, my two older brothers would claim their seats next to our Dad as the 85 Johnston came to life. A manly triumvirate, prone to chuckle as seafaring men-of-mirth do chuckle. I could be found prostrate at the bow, preparing for a pre-dawn launch across the wakeless water. I was the youngest. The men were there to fish. I was there to fly.

One Saturday at the lake I experienced a level of embarrassment that few six-year-olds encounter on a boat ramp. As my flop-sweated dreams now recall, my descent into hell began after finishing a hash brown in the cab of my Dad’s truck. I stretched out on the warm leather bench seat for a moment and listened to the idling engine. Fed and rested, I dutifully locked the truck doors and stepped out onto the well-worn boat ramp. The air was cool and fresh in my nose. With youthful gravity I surveyed the boat ramp and made my way to the rear of the truck to help the other Bridges men winch the boat off of the trailer into the water. Alas, the vessel was already floating. Oh well. It was still going to be a terrific day.

My older brother, Kyle, pulled the rope to bring the boat half aground. My oldest brother, Kevin, loaded supplies. Dad walked up the ramp to move the truck and trailer into a parking space, whistling “Hello Darlin’” as he walked.

I was in my glee. Just as Jason beheld the Argo afore venturing to Colchis, I stood on the marshy shore – arms in a precocious fold – anticipating a poetic jaunt across the sea. When my ennoblement had reached its zenith, I noticed that Dad had stopped whistling on an unresolved tone in the melody.

He was closer to me now. I turned to him. He blinked at least three times. These were heavy blinks. The blinks people blink when they cannot believe.

“Timmy, did you lock the doors on the truck?” Thinking I was soon to be lauded for a mighty deed, I reported, “Yes, Daddy. I did. Both of them. You can check. Click, then click. Yep. I locked ‘em.” Looking back, I see that my life began to change in the brief silence that preceded my Father’s words.

“Well, son.”

He had a twinkle of gallows humor in his eye. He motioned for my two older brothers to move away before he continued. Now that I am a father of boys, I know that he did his best in that harrowing moment. His hand, still damp with lake water, came to rest with gentleness on my head. His thumb glided along on my temple and came to rest on my forehead. Jacob blessing his son.

“Well, son, yes, the doors are locked. The truck is also running. And it is on the boat ramp, blocking all of the other boats.”

In the history of stomach aches, never had one descended so aggressively on a six-year-old. In the fobless age of analog, my error was massive. I was destitute. Bereft of hope. The cool air became Sulphur. Blood poured from the eyes of saints. There were no bathrooms.

I will never forget his hand on my head. The thoughtless deed was mine, but he was going to walk me through what followed.

Having thwarted the joy of Florida’s most ardent lake fishermen, now advancing on our truck, I recommended that we call Mom without delay. This was circa 1982, so I have no idea how we phoned her. I’m sure a nearby family is still telling the story of our pitiful knock at 6:42am on a Saturday. That part of the story is foggy. Two details are as clear as crystal: the collective sigh of thirty bewildered fishermen and the sight of my dear Mother arriving with a spare key. I rode home with her. My fishing days were done. I hated fish, fishermen, boats, hash browns, and Conway Twitty.

The deep love I have for my Dad stems from moments like this. When he got home, and later during similar episodes in my childhood, he taught me to laugh at myself without becoming a joke. He taught me to learn a lesson for next time and to apologize without excuse. He also taught me to avoid blaming the wrong thing just to make myself feel better. The fish, the fishermen, and poor Conway Twitty had nothing to do with it, but they would have been very easy for a child to blame. Instead, I learned to survive what Mark Twain once called “the heedless blunders of a boy.”

In the outdoors, every child runs the risk of having a “boat ramp” moment. (You will most likely have a moment like this, too. Embarrassment is no respecter of age.) I’m not talking about little goofs – those are usually best left alone. I’m talking about those moments that burn.

Embarrassment stings. Despite our best efforts to protect them, children will feel that sting at some point when learning to fish, learning to shoot, learning to ride. They will also feel it in class discussions, math tests, and public speeches. In these moments, parents and older siblings have a special opportunity. Much like temptation, galactic errors are common to man, and handled properly, can make a boy feel like a man. Children need grace, not pity. A gritty grace.

Also, call Mom.