ATTN ALL: This Post Is Now Complete. Read If Interested; Don't If Not. It's More For Me Than For You Anyway.

In a previous post, Your Author outlined the events resulting in our boat being deposited unceremoniously in the driveway at my son's house. Thought I had seen the last of it for a while... but, but and then again BUT:

Got back to Dallas on the 25th of April; we HAD to be on the road by the 30th to be sure we arrived in Montana by May 3rd, as Allison's new contract started on the fifth. Got a call from Bryan; he had changed his mind about being able to keep the boat, as he was afraid he was gonna get a citation for blocking the sidewalk. HEAVY SIGH. So, I mounted up on Saturday the 26th, headed once more the sixty miles to his house to see what we could do.

Spend about six hours Saturday disassembling the entire starboard side window frame. Make a trip to Home Depot. Buy 1/4-inch Plexiglass for window material. Cut Plexiglass. Reassemble window framing. Boat fixed.

Boat After Repair:


Ask Bryan whether he would like to see how it runs. He agrees, so we hitch up and head for Lake Worth, a little reservoir off the end of the former Carswell Air Force Base north-south runway.

Find ramp. Dump boat in water. Discover at this time that Bryan has NO boating experience (should have known this but somehow didn't). Give Bryan crash course on safety and basic knots. Get boat started (thank God for starter fluid; gas in tank has been in boat for 6 months all the way from Maine). Note sign that says 'Day Use Permit Required; Purchase At Marina'. Head off for marina to comply with law like Good Citizen.

Find marina. Throttle down, respecting 'NO WAKE' rule, again like Good Citizen. Note Fish and Game cop boat exiting marina. Go to idle, wave him down to ask about Day Permit.

Spend next 30 minutes answering endless questions about boat's Maine registration. Sense that cop questions Good Citizen's overall sanity for hauling $2000 boat 2000 miles. At end of conversation, cop issues citation for EXPIRED MAINE REGISTRATION. Cop then mandates boat be removed from water immediately. Total time on water: 45 minutes, including interrogation. Cop nice enough to advise Good Citizen that citation will be dismissed if Citizen goes to Fort Worth Fish and Game office, applies for Texas title, and gets valid registration.

Re-trailer boat. Drive 30 miles back to Bryan's house to drop him off. Advise that I will re-stow boat at Chad's office, RIGHT BACK WHERE IT STARTED. Also advise that I will try to get the boat titled and registered IN THE NEXT TWO DAYS, and get the citation dismissed. Total potential driving involved to do all this: about another 200 miles. Get back on road to head back to Plano, still hauling boat. Thirty minutes later; enter George Bush Turnpike, boat still in tow, still heading for Plano.

The Turnpike, for those who don't know it, is one of the five or six most heavily-travelled highways in Texas; it essentially makes a loop around the north side of Dallas, providing access from the northern and western suburbs to D-FW International Airport and the Mid-Cities area. It is also a toll highway, which in Texas means 'I paid to drive on this thing, so that means that the speed limit signs are JUST A SUGGESTION'. The signs say '65 MPH' but the average velocity of the traffic is more like about 80.

SO... enter the Turnpike, mood foul and getting worse, rock-n-roll blaring on the Sirius, mulling the near-impossible logistics of 1)assembling all the Maine paperwork, 2) making Tuesday dental appointment, set six months in advance, 3) getting to Fish and Game office in Fort Worth to get registration, and finally 4)getting all the way back over to Lake Worth to talk to Justice of the Peace and get ticket dismissed. All by end of day Tuesday. Decide it's all just barely possible, if nothing else goes wrong...

Three miles up Turnpike, feel sickeningly severe lurch to the left side. Wrest control back from truck that suddenly wants to drive right into the median, which is blessedly wide at this point. Steal quick glance in side mirror just in time to SEE BOAT'S LEFT WHEEL, TIRE AND ALL, PASSING ME AT SEVENTY MPH. Ponder briefly that this is probably not normal, then note with interest the thirty-foot-high shower of sparks emanating from left side of trailer. Cool! Realize trailer has lost its left wheel and is now dragging on steel axle at an unsettlingly high speed.

Brake carefully, unsure how new angle of trailer is affecting hitch's grasp. Other drivers honking insanely as if they are certain I am unaware of anything out of ordinary. Remove both hands from wheel briefly to give obligatory dual one-finger salute. Pull screechingly to median side of road.

Boat With Broken Fetlock:


Open truck door and resignedly drag self outta vehicle. Walk back toward trailer, attention focused on now-useless spindle resting forlornly on asphalt. New sensory input: what's that smell? Lift gaze back toward path of previous travel and realize that sparks from trailer HAVE SET THE DAMNED MEDIAN ON FIRE, and now the foot-high grass is burning cheerfully in a ten-yard circle about a hundred yards back!!!

HUGE SIGH. Slog wearily back down highway. Main thought on endless loop through short-circuited brain: glad I had to climb in the water to get the boat out, so jeans and shoes are still wet from the lake. Spend ten minutes resolutely stomping out grass fire. Now covered with soot, pants scorched and shoes feel like I been standing on a griddle.

Just thinking about all this is making me tired. I will finish it tomorrow.

P.S. Wisdom For The Day: Experts say that the human thought process is never complete without articulation, and this particular Divine Comedy is not even CLOSE to being finished. You, Dear Reader, are at this point unpaid (and probably worth about what it costs) therapy regarding this subset of occurrences, and you'll just hafta suffer through it before we can move on...

Scotty

OK, let's finish pluckin' this chicken.

Left you guys hangin' Saturday afternoon, with Good Citizen forlornly contemplating both steaming shoes and darkness in heart.

Decide to abandon boat for the time being, still have to be in Plano for niece's and nephew's birthday party that evening. Attempt to unhook trailer. HITCH JAMMED. Heavy sigh revisited. Climb in back of truck, know I have scissor jacks in tool bin but not exactly where. Naturally, they are at the very bottom under about 400 pounds of other junk.

Unload tool bin. Drag out jack. Pry trailer off hitch ball; BOOM!! KA-CHANG!! Boat and trailer, balance having been upset by missing wheel, lurch wildly upward and land solidly on exposed outdrive. Heavy steel trailer tongue misses Good Citizen's jawline by about the breadth of a moth's wing. Good Citizen is totally unsurprised; pretty S.O.P. for this day. Leave stupid thing sitting on side of road and drive sullenly away, at this point entirely willing to let Highway Department worry about it from now on. Fully expect to never see boat again.

SUNDAY: Wife unwilling to concede Bayliner to Highway Dept. (%&$#*@!!!) Wife encourages Citizen to explore other options. After about three hours on Web, find out that wife has, while on way to church, seen a boat trailer with 'FOR SALE' sign in Garland. Have wife send photo taken from phone. Have wife send phone number on sign. Call phone number; trailer owner is willing to part with axle only and disassemble for $125.

Rather than driving all the way back to boat to measure axle, decide to chance that trailer for sale has suitable axle. Drive to Garland, spend an hour helping seller remove axle from 'for sale' trailer. Pay him; load up axle, including wheels and tires. Drive 45 miles back to disabled boat. AXLE IS NINE INCHES TOO SHORT(insert your choice of colorful language here).

Citizen, at this point, accepts that boat is actively malign, evil personified, and that Satan and all his minions reside within. Hallucinate that I can HEAR THEM gleefully high-fiving. Decide within that moment that DEFEAT IS NOT AN OPTION. Unload tools. Lever up entire boat and trailer on two scissor jacks and begin removal of broken axle, sitting cross-legged on shoulder, resolutely ignoring buffeting, hurricane-force wind shear initiated by traffic (including VERY large Freightliners) screaming past at Indy-like speeds, six inches from Citizen's potential mangled corpse. News flash: ALL EIGHT axle U-bolts are rusted shut; every single one has to be broken in half to remove axle. Citizen's is hypertensive but unsurprised.

Load axle in truck; weight: about 250 pounds. Contemplate value of boat and value of victory over the Devil versus co-pay and deductible for hernia surgery; shrug and carry on. Drive all the way back to Plano with axle and associated parts (including retrieved runaway wheel) in back of truck.

On Web again; find trailer parts company in south Dallas that looks like it may possibly carry an acceptable replacement axle. Parts company opens at 07:30 Monday. MapQuest says it's about an hour and a half from Plano. Estimate about two hours to replace axle and wheels once back on site. THE CLOCK AND CALENDAR ARE NOT MY FRIENDS.

Awaken at 05:00 Monday. Drive to parts house. Things are looking up; they actually have a direct replacement. Another $250; what the hell, in for a penny blah blah blah. Load up new axle and new wheels. Drive 45 miles back to Demon Boat, while wondering idly what costs are associated with an exorcism.

10:30; arrive at now-familiar highway shoulder; note without detectable emotion that boat has, during the night, been red-tagged for removal. HA! Unload axle; that 250 lbs again, but this time gravity is an ally. Place body in harm's way one more time, but this time things are looking up, and new axle goes on without major heartburn. Finish up. Torque U-bolts one more time and drop trailer, MUCH more cooperative now that it's not trying to fall over on its side, back on hitch. DRIVE AWAY, reflecting idly that no one is gonna believe ANY of this.

NEXT: The Trials And Tribulations Of Registering And Titling An Out-Of-State Boat.

LET'S FINISH THIS so I can purge my wetware of the entire episode. Besides, Dear Reader, we got places to go and things to see.

TUESDAY (remember, we HAVE to leave on Wednesday):
Arise early, check over Bayliner documentation again, and drive all the way back to Fort Worth (I will cheerfully go years before seeing my former city of residence again after all this). Drop Allison off at her doctor for scheduled checkup and proceed to Fish and Game office. Arrive just as it opens. Effect entry. Present self before uniformed officer at window; immediately notice that uniformed officer's demeanor suggests (pick one) dire family circumstances or acute indigestion. Suspect that Fish and Game and Department indiscriminately trades employees with DMV; utter indifference is dead giveaway. Again, Citizen is required to explain that MAINE DOES NOT TITLE BOATS; only evidence of ownership is (expired) registration and a hand-written bill-of-sale. Utter disbelief, and opinion of Citizen's nefarious and possibly criminal intent, are engraved on officer's visage. Entire staff of Fish and Game facility summoned to witness the idiot that towed 1988 boat 2000 miles (by this time Citizen senses a trend).

Numerous telephone calls to the State Capital in Austin ensue; eventually (by now visibly annoyed) officer concedes that documentation is sufficient to proceed with registration and application for title. Only one snag: State of Texas requires a) hull Serial Number (no problem), b) engine Serial Number (again, got it), and c) OUTDRIVE SERIAL NUMBER. $&@$&%@!!!! at this point, the reader must remember, the boat is 65 hard-traffic city miles away and, in any event, Citizen is already aware that the decal which contains said serial number (and was applied over TWENTY YEARS and uncountable salt-water immersions ago) is totally indecipherable and couldn't be had even if Citizen had Horatio Kane from CSI Miami at his disposal. Which he did not.

Fish and Game officer is (now cheerfully!) adamant that title/registration cannot be applied for without number. Citizen is insane with rage. Citizen retires to parking lot to ponder universe's chaos and plot his next move in what has become a cosmic chess match.

Call directory assistance, get number for Bayliner. Call Bayliner; plead with receptionist to pull records on boat by hull number. Receptionist puts Citizen on interminable hold. Returns to phone; with obvious pride announces that with GREAT DIFFICULTY she has obtained the ENGINE NUMBER. ARRRRGGGGGHHHH!!! Advise once again that engine number is in hand. Receptionist then admits that Bayliner did not log outdrive numbers in 1988. Advises Citizen to call Volvo (who is the manufacturer of the outdrive). After another hold, provides Volvo's number.

Volvo: 'We just sell 'em, we don't record the outdrive number, we don't even know where the unit goes after it leaves here'. Sudden comic-book light bulb appears above Citizen's aching head: 'I think I can barely make out the numbers on this (invisible 'cause it's far,far away) outdrive; if you can just give me the letter and number format, maybe I can decipher it'.

JACKPOT!! Gullible but amiable Volvo drone readily provides Volvo's standard (for 1988) serial number format. Crafty and clever Citizen promptly and creatively MAKES UP a fictitious (but darned sure formatted right!) outdrive number and triumphantly rushes back into Fish and Game office, maniacally brandishing now-completed paperwork. Miracles do happen; obviously-disappointed window attendant reluctantly ACCEPTS CITIZEN'S MONEY AND ISSUES REGISTRATION!!! VICTORY IS MINE BWWWAAA HHAAAAA HAAAAA!!!!!

OK, I'm all done with this story (and finished talking about myself in the third-person, it's becoming tedious anyway). Suffice it to say that I went back to the doctor, picked up Allison, and we still had time to get over to Lake Worth, talk to the Justice of the Peace (a very nice lady whose jurisdiction includes the lake where I got the ticket) and get the citation dismissed. Then we went merrily off to the dentist, where Allison DIDN'T CRY.

In closing, I want you aware, Dear Reader, that this post has been thoroughly therapeutic and that, if we can all derive one lesson from all this, it's as follows: NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, GIVE UP. Failure only becomes possible when you surrender.