What Goes Around, Comes Around

We were two tired, aging boaters who had just cleared lock twelve on the Erie Canal. Now anyone who has ever traversed the Erie Canal with its many locks and slimy ropes would recognize the condition we were in. Afterward our ordeal, we were looking forward to a relaxing three-night stay at a highly recommended marina.

My heart sank as we slowly cleared the shallow, narrow and curved entrance. My dream of open spaces and trees, a park of sorts, vamoosed into smoke. There are marinas like that. Then there are those tucked into forgotten areas with small towns lording it overall. Quaint houses in Victorian style, curving streets, unexpected gems surprising one at hidden corners.

Not here. Neither park nor quaint small town. To our left was a bank of high-rise apartments. A swimming pool packed with weekend revelers. Groups of picnickers dotted on the lawns. Admittedly a vast open grass plot across from the neighboring hotel and casino. Later my husband told me that along with the vanishing mists of dawn, it used to be General Electric’s Headquarters.

Still absorbing the disappointment, I ventured onto the starboard gunnel and grabbed a spring line. I expected some help in docking, and we’d had an email assuring us of the “red carpet” on arrival. At $2.00 a foot, we were paying $100.00 a night for our fifty-foot boat.

The reality was no help as I fought to secure a cleat on the dock. Which generally is a breeze but this time, for several reasons, which included a too-short line to snag the cleat and secure safely, it became a dangerous dance where I hung over a knee-high rail and missed cleat after cleat. Admittedly I should’ve checked the length of the line, but I’d expected help!

By the time we finally got tied up, lines forward, mid, and aft, tempers reminded me of the edges on my favorite jeans shorts. Frayed.

My husband went off to the marina office to sign in. No one there. Office closed. Which translated into:

No Wi-Fi access code.

No code/key to washrooms and toilets.

Judging

Thoroughly disgruntled, we sat on the aft deck. A fair-sized boat, thirty-seven feet or so, with four youngsters aboard, came in. Making an awful noise and weaving all over the place.

“Gasoline engines,” my husband said. (He’s a diesel fan.) “And he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Now my man is experienced and exceptionally good. Compliments abound from total strangers that watch him dock.

The poor guy in the gasoline-powered boat first crashed into one dock and then another. We stood ready to help if he came near our dock.

But he managed to wheedle close to a floating dock, and one of the nubile youngsters aboard hopped and skipped on to the dock and tied up the boat.

“You know what,” said the husband, “he only has one engine working. It’s very hard to maneuver a boat with two engines on only one engine.”

“Hah!” I thought to myself. “You could do it.”

Still grumping about our non-existent help on arrival, plus I was not too fond of the whole setup, we decide to leave the next day. A lovely young man showed up who couldn’t stop apologizing. It so happens management had omitted to tell him a boat would be arriving at 2.00 pm on a Sunday, and he was working elsewhere.  I told him all was well, and we could handle our departure. Another black mark on management.

Come Monday morning. Lines free. Water and power picked up. Dogs and I installed with blankets, pillows, toys, my books and knitting, and Kindle and phone. Oh yes, and a whole bottle of water.

Everything we could possibly need for a three-hour trip to our next destination.

The husband flicked switch one for the starboard engine, and it roared into life. Switch two for the port engine, and it followed in a split second. I remarked on how quickly they had fired.

I guess it’s a throwback to my long-ago youth and love for fast cars and motorbikes. But I love the roar of a Detroit Diesel boat engine.

Slowly he edged the bow around to the left with the aid of the starboard engine. Now he needed that port engine to swing our stern to the right into the narrow available space between two sets of docks.

That nasty narrow, curvy entrance waited. Ahead lay the lovely Mohawk River. Smooth water. Blue skies.  Fluffy soap suds for clouds. I picked up my phone to read my daily devotionals.

Judged

And the port engine died. It didn’t whimper. It didn’t gasp. Or wheeze of groan.

Nope.

It just died.

And no matter how good my husband is, there was no way he could maneuver a fifty-foot 36,000 lbs. Sea Ray Sundancer (probably closer to 40,000 lbs. fully loaded with fuel and water) in a limited space to leave through a funky exit.

The bow swung back and forth as he fought the weight of the boat and the wind.

“We have to dock again,” he yelled. “Go to the swim platform. You’ll have to jump onto the dock.”

Yes Sir! Having had a total left knee replacement in March, I didn’t trust my knees. But jump, I would.

He came alongside the dock, and I was ready to jump when he changed his mind. “Go to the front, grab a line and snag a cleat.”

No jumping and a nice long line made for success the first time.

I looked back to see the stern swing out and away from the dock. At the end of the dock, I spotted someone spraying weeds.

“Can you please help?” I pleaded.

He immediately came over. My husband was on the swim platform and could throw him a line, the wind pushing us into the dock, helping our efforts.

And there we sat. No amount of coaxing would bring that port engine to life. No sweet talk. No cussing.

Now the husband is an engineer and typically can make anything work.

Not this time.

And as we started the weary slog to find a diesel mechanic, the saying came to mind –

“What goes around, comes around.”

What cheek I’d had to criticize the young man trying to dock a boat on one engine the previous day.

My mind went further. As upset and irritated as I was on our arrival with no welcoming committee, I am at least in a safe, protected harbor with water and power available.

The engine failure could’ve happened in one of the canals!

We finally found a diesel mechanic. This lovely man walked onto the boat, descended into the engine room, flicked a switch on that port engine, and it roared into life.

The problem? An emergency air shutoff had, for reasons unknown, shut itself off.

Four hundred dollars, and two days later, we were on our way.

Where is my lesson in all of this?

Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you (Matthew 7 7:1-2).