What I Did On My Summer Vacation, Pt. 2

By Bob Wire, 9-16-09

The big CAT diesel thrummed ominously beneath the floorboards as our tour group clomped across the gangplank and found our seats on the school bus-sized boat. The fifty-year old Sacagawea casted off, with our tour guide at the six-handled wheel.

“Welcome to the Gates of the Mountains boat tour,” he said into the microphone as he turned to face us. Our skipper was a barrel-chested swab who looked a lot like Ernest Borgnine, with a gravelly voice that sounded like Moms Mabley on codeine. His bushy salt and pepper eyebrows looked like a pair of small badgers perched atop his mirrored sunglasses. “This is the Sacagawea, one of two tour boats we use on the Missouri River,” he said in his monotone growl. “She was built entirely out of wood in 1956, and takes hundreds of tourists every day up the same route that Lewis and Clark followed on their famous expedition of 1805.” It sounded like he was reading the speech off the inside of his glasses.

The Skipper talked history for a couple more minutes, as the boat backed slowly away from the dock, then he went into a spiel about boat safety. “Please stay in the blue part of the boat. Don’t…uh oh.” He turned away from the crowd, still clutching the mic, and shoved the gearshift back and forth several times. He revved the engine, but the boat continued to drift lazily backward. Seventy-five passengers looked at each other, a cloud of question marks forming over our heads.

“Uh, we’ve got a problem out here on the boat,” he said into the mic. He was talking to the crew onshore, but was still on the PA. Suddenly the tour was getting interesting. “The shaft is turning, but we’ve got no power. Might be a busted link in the driveshaft. We’re dead in the water.” He realized that he was on the PA, and quickly swapped the mic for a large walkie-talkie. He started to gesticulate as he spoke in hushed tones while we drifted in the marina, two hundred yards from shore. If this had been an airplane, there would have been crying, screaming, pants-crapping, and all manner of freaking out. But we were just on a boat that had become a raft, so we all sat back to enjoy the comedy.

Soon we could see a buzz of activity on the dock. A guy with a flaxen, bowl-shaped haircut who looked like he could be named Sven came running down the dock, followed by a stout young guy carrying a tool box. They jumped into a runabout and motored out to the Sacagawea, while the passengers started looking around, wondering which of us would be the first to be eaten by the others if it came to that.

Sven fastened a line to the bow of the Sacagawea and climbed aboard. Toolbox had trouble restarting the motor to the runabout, which was between our boat and a dock. The Sacagawea drifted helplessly into the dock, nearly capsizing the smaller boat with Toolbox aboard. Comically windmilling his arms, Toolbox regained his balance and managed to keep the runabout upright while Sven used a pole to push the Sacagawea away from the dock. By the time Toolbox was able to get the outboard motor started, he was drenched with sweat and his face was the color of watermelon flesh. He glared at Sven and the Skipper, but, aware that he was being watched intently by 75 amused tourists struggling mightily not to laugh, he didn’t utter a sound. We all knew that Sven would likely have a bite out of his ass by the time those guys got back to the boat house.

Toolbox towed us slowly back to the landing, where they made the Sacagawea fast to the dock, and two more guys jumped aboard with another toolbox. We were already 30 minutes into the ride, which was supposed to be a two-hour tour. A two-hour tour.

The Skipper picked up the mic and said that anyone who wants out can leave the boat now and catch the next one, or get a refund. Not a soul left his seat. We were part of the story now. The guy sitting next to me was cracking jokes nonstop, entertaining the people around us. The mood overall was pretty lighthearted, and we’d rolled the tarps out overhead to shield ourselves from the brutal August sun.

The Skipper sat on a stool on the bridge and calmly munched an apple, inscrutable behind his mirrored shades. Two guys lay on the deck, up to their armpits in the access hatch, working furiously on the drive shaft. Lots of banged knuckles, lots of muted swearing, a fair amount of plumber’s crack. Finally, they gave the Skipper the signal, and he fired up the engine. He pulled the shifter into reverse, then into forward and back again. We could feel the boat responding, pulling against the ropes. A cheer went up from the passengers, and the mechanics loaded their toolboxes and climbed up onto the dock. They cast off the lines, and we were once again underway, albeit an hour late.

The Skipper’s tremendous eyebrows waggled as he expertly backed the boat up, and turned on a dime as he shoved it into forward gear. We finally began heading toward the mouth of the river canyon, and he grabbed the microphone. “Welcome to the Gates of the Mountains boat tour. This is the Sacagawea…” he began. We all looked at each other. He was doing the exact same speech, as if nothing had happened. We all laughed, but our relief was palpable.

If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Sacagawea would have been lost.

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