It had been maybe a month since I'd last been out in the boat, so I'm not sure why I expected it to fire right up or why I actually took the can of starter fluid out before hooking up the trailer. Anyway, I left work a couple hours early on Monday, intending to spend a few quiet hours on the lake. I've been working too much lately, coming in on Saturdays and such, so I was anxious to get out on one of the few cool days we've had around here.
Of course, the motor wouldn't start. I think I might know why, but I'm feeling less like fixing the situation and more like pouting about it for a while. After spending ten minutes cranking the starter (electric, thank god) and fiddling with the gas line, the mixture, the choke, I had to haul myself up on the dock and stumble back to the car and get the boat back on the trailer. Which usually isn't a problem, but somehow becomes another 15 minutes fighting with the boat, shoving, tugging, cranking, while a woman and her son skip rocks on the lake from the dock. By the time the boat is finally on the trailer, I'm fully discombobulated, and steady myself against the car as I try to get from the trailer to the driver's seat, and the woman and her son are looking at me, probably trying to decide what particular chemical I've been abusing.
In truth, I don't think I'm quite ready to give up on one of the few activities that still provides me with some transcendent moments of bliss. I'll probably get the boat running when the weather starts to cool off a bit and, in a few years when my wife's new career as a nurse is well underway, maybe we'll have enough scratch to replace the leaky piece of shit with something newer and nicer. For now, though, I choose to stay a little bitter about this small indignity.