A Tale of a Whale

Okay, so here is the long-awaited tale of our pontoon. (My close friends already know the story, so ya’ll can skip this post if you wanna.)

Casey and I have wanted a pontoon since, oh, forever. I fell in love with pontoons when I was a young teen. My aunt and uncle had a pontoon and a cabin up on Taneycomo in Missouri, and we often went with them to fish for trout. I loved trout fishing on the boat, with my legs kicked up on the sides, my corn-and-salmon egg-and-garlic marshmallow festooned hook dangling into the ice-cold waters. I worked on my tan while reading a book and, in a distant sort of way, waited for the thrilling tug that signaled I had a fish. I also enjoyed when we trolled for fish, puttering along the lake at a slow pace, each person holding his or her pole and praying, praying, praying for a fish. (My aunt Linda, who we call “Ninny,” had a chant that I still use myself—“Fishy, fishy, in a brook, come and get on Ninny’s hook.” Though I put my name in there when I chant, of course.) If someone happened to catch a fish, he or she hollered out “I got one,” and everyone began busily reeling in his or her own lines to keep the path clear for the lucky fisherperson. Getting to yell, “I got one!” and watch as everyone reeled in their own lines felt like getting a “bingo” in a game. It didn’t matter how puny the fish was—everyone oohed and ahhed and slapped the fisherperson on the back good-naturedly. That was a sweet time in my young life.

When I met Casey, he also liked to fish, and when we were engaged, my aunt and uncle included him on our trout trips. And though he would later become an ardent and adept fly fisherman, he always kept a soft spot in his heart for the ol’ pontoon. So when we saw an ad for a 28-foot pontoon with trailer and motor at a reasonable price, we rushed to see it and claimed it for our own. It is a MONSTER—bigger than most of the pontoons I see out on the lake.

Note how you cannot see the trailer under the boat . . .

(I called my sister in Africa to tell her about it, and she said, “Mom already told me. I said, ‘Wow, Becky and Casey are becoming quite the yuppies with their boat and all.’ Mom said, ‘Yuppies? Pontoon? More like rednecks.’ I said, ‘Not rednecks—missionary kids.’” I told my sister, “Well, guess who’s not getting a ride on my redneck boat?” But I lied—she was with us on our first and third launch.)

We were so happy to have our new boat, planning our big parties on the pontoon, dreaming of the trout we would slay. Alas, we bought our boat the day before we went to Colorado for a week, and had to wait to get out to the lake. The next full weekend back, though, we were primed and ready. We gathered up our gear and my parents (yes, even my mom) and headed 40 minutes away to Beaver Lake. We got there no problem, put in, and—guess what? The motor would not start. Some fisherguys stopped to try and help, but to no avail. Casey and my dad went to the marina to find a new battery, had to go to Auto Zone, and still—no starting. Finally, after hours of despair, we despondently loaded back up and went home. When Casey got home, he drained the gas (which, it turns out, was filled with water) and boo-yeah! it started like a dream. My parents had taken the kids to spend the night with them, so we decided to try again the next day after church. Casey and I would go to the early service, and then head out to the lake. My parents, who were taking my grandparents to their church, would meet up with us later that afternoon for a ride.

Sunday dawned hot and clear and full of anticipation. We half-listened to the sermon, dreaming of the lake. After we changed into more casual clothes, we loaded up and headed towards Beaver. As we went around a corner, Casey hollered, “Oh crap! The boat!” I looked behind us and saw our pontoon was now on its side in the middle of the highway—it had tipped over off of the trailer. We stopped and a young man ran over to us. “I saw that happen—I was eating at Sonic and told my wife, ‘Don’t look’ ‘cause I knew it was going over.” The guy was a volunteer fireman, and quickly took charge, unhooking batteries and the gas tank. We called 9-1-1 and a policeman showed up and began directing traffic all around us. Long story short (“too late!”), quite a few kind souls stopped to help us, one of who dashed off to get his bobcat and pushed our boat back upright. We had a difficult time getting it back on the trailer, but we managed to, though we were SCARED driving all the way home. Miraculously, the pontoon suffered very little damage—the cab’s bolts had pulled out a little and the back ledge had snapped. The motor was fine, though, and everything else just took a little quick tweaking from handy Casey to be right as rain again (well, we had to get the ledge legs welded back on, but that was just a little repair). I broke out into a cold sweat for a week afterwards every time I thought of all the things that COULD have happened—like our pontoon tipping over ON someone and crushing him, and decreed that I would. not. go out on that boat with that trailer again.

I began to research our trailer and discovered what the man who had sold us the whole pontoon/trailer stuff neglected to tell us: that though the trailer is a nice one, it is NOT designed for a boat that big, nor is it meant to go long distances (it is the type used by marinas to move pontoons quickly in and out of the water—a crank-style trailer). I began calling around and heard, over and over again, “We don’t have trailers for boats that big” OR "We have a trailer that big but it will cost suchandsuch" (way over what we paid for our pontoon). Finally, Casey mentioned our mishap to a couple whose house he is building, and they told him that their brother had built several pontoon trailers. Casey knows the guy, so he called him, and the guy said, “Sure—I’d be glad to help you build one.”

After a solid week of early mornings and late nights welding, stapling, and painting, our custom trailer was done. It has wheels on the outside (hurrah), bunks for the pontoon to rest on (double hurrah) and doesn’t sway a bit. So we tried again—we loaded up the kids and my mom (my dad was in India by this time) and started out for the lake.

And we made it there safely. We had a great day, with only minor setbacks (the battery connections were a little soiled so Casey had to beat on them periodically with a wrench). We pulled the kids on a tube behind us, sunbathed, swam, and even did a little unsuccessful fishing (there are only bass and catfish in Beaver, and none of us know how to bass fish . . . yet). I have dubbed our boat, “The One-eyed Lucky,” after that old joke: “Lost dog: Is missing one eye, one ear, one testicle, a tail, and a leg. Goes by the name, ‘Lucky’.”

Captain Casey of the SS One-eyed Lucky

Me and Mygirl, trying out some tubing

My mother--she of the "redneck" comment. She should talk--she's the one who is originally from Arkansas, after all.

Handsome boy o' mine

Mygirl, taking the plunge off the sun-deck