Boats are considered shes by chauvinistic pig nauticisans because you can’t live with or without them. If Rachael Ray can make up the word EVOO for extra virgin olive oil, I can make up the word nauticisan meaning manly oinking boater. I have a love/hate relationship with boats. Too many of them have owned me. The only sure thing about a boat is that sooner or later she’s gonna break down or break your heart. Just a few days ago our beloved Boston Whaler allowed her venerable Yamaha Pro 50 to produce a horrifying cry of agony. This marked the first time in twenty years Lady Whaler has openly complained about anything.

The day began like any other innocent spring fishing trip day. Tom, Pierre and I stowed our fishing gear, a rather roomy cooler full of awesome DiOrio deli subs and a week’s worth of emergency adult beverages aboard Lady Whaler and trailered her to the Inlet Fourth Lake boat launch. After performing my customary four to five attempts at a perfect water entry, Lady Whaler was unleashed on the unsuspecting 2012 game fish population. Pierre and I rigged our lethal salmon and lake trout lures as Captain Tom set us up for the first dredge along the beach in nine feet of water. We were about to sample a survival beverage when I was forced to cry out, “What the hell’s that noise Captain Tom?”  

Captain Tom who spends many more hours piloting Harley Davidson Hogs than Boston Whalers responded appropriately, “Beats the shitake mushrooms outta me. It’s your boat.”        

The high pitched alarm is not something I’d experienced during my two decade love affair with Lady Whaler. The obnoxious whine emanated from the gear box. Kinda sounded like my wife Deb when I don’t fetch her Captain Morgan and Sprite promptly.  We immediately checked the possible malfunctions. The engine was spitting water, the oil reserve was full and we were floating right side up. Like responsible boaters we decided to pull Lady Whaler, tow her to Big Moose Yamaha and have the obnoxious demon exorcised. Our bad. Big Moose Yamaha’s closed four days a week this time of year.

Back to the Inlet launch we went. We still had the whole day ahead of us and a full cooler. Manly oinking boaters aren’t smart enough to give up. We got out the owner’s manual and there was zero mention of an insufferable alarm. We dry cranked the engine one time and there was no alarm. I backed the trailer into the lake and tried the engine again. No alarm. We agreed that the alarm was a figment of our imaginations, dumped the she devil back in the lake and resumed our hunt for man-eating fishies.  

We trolled for thirty blissful minutes and we were groovin’ on the day. Then the blasted siren broke the spell. Too bad the only thing our crew knows about outboard motors is enough to stay away from them. Aren’t these motors built to perform flawlessly for sixty years if you change the lower unit oil once a decade? Captain Tom dutifully came about, goosed the engine and headed toward the launch. The alarm went silent. Oh, Lady Whaler feels the need for speed. So we tooled along alarm free for a while then dropped back to trolling speed. Lady Whaler may have a mind of her own but she’s just a hole in the water with a motor after all. We lamebrains lolly gagging between her gunnels are still the boss of her.  

At one point we trolled for an hour alarm free. We were cocky. We cut the engine and ate our DiOrio subs while drifting peacefully with the other loons in the middle of Fourth Lake. We hadn’t had a single fish hit our lures but as Rhett Butler said, “Frankly my dear, we didn’t give a damn.” My sub was roast beef and Swiss on onion roll with horseradish and pickles. Who needs fish. I already ate Lisa’s fish fry at the Hardtimes and we were planning to get Paul’s fish fry at the Red Dog Friday night. After pigging out we kicked the Yamaha in the butt and resumed trolling. Bzzt, wrong answer, Hans.  Alarm, alarm, this is not a drill, this is not a drill. General quarters, general quarters.  All hands man your battle stations.  

Just so happens we were abreast of Clarke’s Marina in Eagle Bay when the alarm came on and our motley crew agreed it was time to get an expert opinion. As Captain Tom crashed into the dock we could see our old pal Drew Webster power washing a titanic new pontoon boat. What a she devil she was. Talk about creature comforts. We asked Drew if he’d troubleshoot our reoccurring alarm problem. Head mechanic Mike Schantz came down with Drew to take a look. Mike had Captain Tom stick his hand under the water stream coming out of the exhaust system. Tom reported that the water was quite warm. Drew had checked the oil reserve and that seemed fine. Probably not the oil pump. The consensus was that the water pump impeller was beginning to fail after 23 years of use. Outboard manufacturers recommend impellers be replaced every two years. Whatever. Actually, Lady Whaler never went into the water last season due to exigent circumstances. Maybe the impeller shriveled up from boredom.      

After a couple more hours of limping back to the launch dragging an assortment of really sexy yet otherwise useless lures behind Lady Whaler while polishing off the emergency beverages, we retrieved the old girl from the lake and towed her back to her cozy garage. We’ll have Mike order her a new water pump kit and get her gussied up for the summer season. Soon she’ll be back out there dancing over the waves. Even our manly oinking ineptitude can’t keep a good she devil down. And remember the sentiments of Sir Francis Chichester who single handedly circumnavigated the globe twice in a 54-foot sailboat, “Any damn fool can navigate the world sober. It takes a really good sailor to do it drunk.”  

The Lady Whaler crew is much more responsible. We would never attempt to circumnavigate the globe.