Column: Dinghys, dogs and why did I buy the damn thing?

The dog ate my dinghy.

That’s why this year, in order to get out to the boat I will have to rehab a shaky fiberglass model that may or may not accept a fairly heavy 2 horsepower motor that, strangely, has no gearshift.

If you want to spend money for a gift that keeps on spending, I strongly suggest buying a boat. Mind you, I have never assumed that boat sailing and maintenance was a cheap endeavor, but now, after four years of ownership, I am beginning to see why used boats sell for such bargain prices. I also know why people join yacht clubs. Oh, people may tell you that it’s because of the races, parties and the excuse to wear hideous clothing, but really, it’s to be able to complain about all the travails of boat ownership to someone who can genuinely commiserate with them.

Just like the inept fisherman who, if he took the time to actually calculate the cost of the six or so fish that he might catch annually, would discover that the price per pound would exceed that of the most expensive imported blue fin tuna, no sailor worth his salt (sorry) dares figure out what an average seasonal sail costs. To do so one must include what is spent for mooring fees, mooring repair, boat launching, boat hauling, sandpaper, bottom paint, fiberglass cleaner, wax, “boat wipes,” teak oil (or, unless you’re retired and have way more time than money, varnish), gasoline, engine winterizing, engine springizing, repairing sails, replacing very tiny but very expensive pieces of bronze and stainless steel and most importantly — Sea-Tow membership. Add to this the intangible cost of the 100 or so hours spent in non-sailing hours physically doing all the work that the above expenses require, and you’d probably come up with a cost per trip roughly equivalent to a cruise to Block Island and back on a private yacht, drinks and meals included.

Point this out to the average boat owner and you’ll undoubtedly hear something like, “It’s a labor of love!” They’re lying. It’s not a labor of love at all. It’s slavery.

Here’s how the dinghy thing went. The first year I searched and searched for a little tender that I could row or power out to the mooring. I finally found one on Craig’s List from a guy with a mooring service up-island who rehabilitated small crafts discarded or lost in the reeds by hapless boat owners. It only weighed 90 pounds, but seemed to get heavier each time I pulled it out of the mud to load it for a sail. Besides, it was a little shaky. I had no motor at the time, so I would have to row out, of course facing the shore and not the boat. At a time of my life when even backing up an automobile is a seriously risky maneuver, rowing several hundred yards from shore, backwards, without T-boning a $200,000 yacht was a challenge indeed. Additionally, the boat was only capable of holding two people of average weight and a cooler with not too much beer in it. Anything more and freeboard became inboard.

One trip, one of my mates happened to sit down with just a little too much force on the stern thwart (seat), severely cracking it. It was this day that Helpmate decided I needed something more substantial than this flimsy piece of fiberglass barely held together with little pieces of wood. That Christmas, lo and behold, a brand new inflatable dinghy complete with an inflatable seat and paddles, capable of easily transporting four adults, appeared in a giant box under the tree. For season two I was still headed out to the boat backwards, but with a draft of only three or four inches, fairly gliding over the rippling waves, no longer worried about damaging boats. So now I would just bounce, pinball-like, off vacant moorings, boats and unyielding cormorants.

Season three, tired of backing into things, I bought what I thought was the solution: a 2-horsepower 4-stroke outboard that I was sure would fit my little boat just perfectly. What I didn’t realize was that, solo in the rear of the inflatable, with the additional 30 or so pounds of the motor, all I would see once underway was the floor of the boat as the bow tipped skyward at 60 degrees. Another quirky little element to this cavalcade of nautical comedy was the fact that this motor had no gearshift. That’s right — as soon as the thing turns over, you’re underway! (Or under water.) End result? Another season of guessing where the boat was moored, hoping not to back over swimmers, kayakers or children in inner tubes.

About a week or so after decommissioning the boat and deflating the inflatable late last fall, Helpmate and I were out raking leaves, when she looked over by the trailer.

“Why is the dinghy out by the shed, all unfolded?” she asked.
I investigated. Turns out my son’s lovable but extremely tenacious bulldog had thought the boat was just another piece of evil plastic, suitable for ripping and tearing. Completely destroyed. Gaping holes and lacerations throughout. Not even a hope of repair.

So here I am, season four. Back to the first dinghy, one extra person and a light cooler. The motor might work this time and one thing for sure, the dog can’t eat this boat.

But I’m worried about the air mattresses in the pool.