“To prevent slipping, a knot depends on friction, and to
provide friction there must be pressure of some sort. This
pressure and the place within the knot where it occurs is
called the nip. The security of a knot seems to depend solely
on its nip.”
THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS
IT WAS like mirror writing. The slightest change in reverse sent the trailer on the opposite tack, and Quoyle squinted in the side mirror at reflections of opposition. Again and again it folded like a jackknife blade seeking its bed, and twice it gouged the new dock. He was sick of it when finally the thing went straight back and into the water. A trick to it.
Got out and looked at the trailer. Wheels were in the water, the boat poised. His hand was on the tilt latch when he thought of a securing line. That would be fun, launch the boat and watch it float away.
He managed to attach bow and stern lines, yanked the latch. The boat slid down. He got the winch line loose, scrambled onto the dock and made the boat fast. It was something of a two-man operation. Then back to the trailer, close the latch, wind up the cable. The fifty-dollar boat was in the water.
He got in, remembered the damn motor. Still in the station wagon. Carried it onto the dock, put his foot on the gunwale and fell into the boat. Cursed all vessels from floating logs to supertankers.
Quoyle didn’t see he’d mounted the motor in a position that would force the bow up like the nose of a bird dog. He poured in gas from the red can.
The motor started on the first pull. There was Quoyle sitting in the stern of a boat. His boat. The motor was running, his hand was on the tiller, wedding ring glinting. He moved the gearshift to reverse, as he had seen Dennis do, and gingerly applied a little power. The boat swung in toward the dock at the stern. Jockeyed back and forth until he was beyond the dock. Shifted into forward. The motor gave a low roar and the boat went-too fast-parallel with the shore. He eased back on the throttle and the boat wallowed. Now forward again, and rocks leaped up ahead of him. Instinctively he pushed the tiller toward the shore and the boat curved out onto Omaloor Bay. The water curled. Traveling on a glass arrow.
He worked the tiller, traced curves. Now faster. Quoyle laughed like a dog in the back of a pickup. Why had he feared boats?
There was an offshore breeze and the waves slapped the boat bottom as he sped at them. A sharp turn and he felt the boat skid. Pushed the throttle back. The stern wave roared up behind him and sloshed over the transom, swirled around his ankles and spread out in the boat. He pulled at the throttle again and the boat leapt forward, but sluggishly, and the water on the floor rushed toward the stern, adding its weight to Quoyle’s. He looked for something to bail out the water; nothing. Turned very carefully toward the dock. The boat was vague and unwilling, for the water had altered the trim. Yet he moved forward, not afraid of sinking only two hundred feet from the dock.
As he approached he jerked back on the throttle again, and again the stern wave sloshed over the transom. But close enough to cut the motor and let the boat grind against the dock. He threw his mooring lines over the piles and went up to the house for a coffee can bail.
Back on the water again, he played the throttle delicately, turning with care, wary of the stern wave. There had to be a way to keep the water out when you slowed down.
“Of course there is,” said Nutbeem. “Your transom’s cut too low. What you need is a motor well, a bulkhead as high as the sides of the boat forward of the motor, with self-bailing drains in each corner. Build one in an hour. I’m flabbergasted they registered it the way it is.”
“It’s not registered,” said Quoyle.
“You’d better hop on down to the Coast Guard and do it,” said Nutbeem. “You get caught without a registration, without a motor well, without the proper lights and flotation devices they’ll fine your ass off. I suppose you have an anchor?”
“No,” said Quoyle.
“Oars? Something to bail with? Distress flares? Do you have a safety chain for your motor?”
“No, no,” said Quoyle. “I was just trying it out.”
On a Saturday Dennis and Quoyle hauled the boat out of the water. Bunny on the dock, throwing stones.
“She’s a rough bugger,” said Dennis. “In fact, you might burn her and start over.”
“I can’t afford to. Can’t we put in a motor well? When I tried it out last week it went right along. It was fine until the water came in. I just want to get back and forth across the bay with it.”
“I’ll put in a bulkhead and give you some advice-only take this thing out on quiet days. If it looks rough better get a ride with your aunt or drive your wagon. It isn’t fit, you get in a hard nip.”
Quoyle stared at his boat.
“Look at it,” said Dennis. “It’s just a few planks bunged together. The boy that built it deserves a whack of shot in the backside.”
Quoyle’s hand went up to his chin.
“Dad,” said Bunny, crouched on the pebbles, ramming a stick into the sand. “I want to go in the boat.”
Dennis clicked his tongue as though he’d heard her say a dirty word.
“Talk to Alvin Yark. See if he’d make you something. He makes good boats. I’d make something for you, but he’ll do it quicker and it’ll cost you less. I’ll put a bulkhead in, long as nobody sees me doing it, touching this thing, but you better talk with Alvin. You got to have a boat. That’s certain.”
Bunny ran up to the house, thumb and forefinger pinched together.
“Aunt, the sky is the biggest thing in the world. Guess what’s the littlest?”
“I don’t know, my dear. What?”
“This.” And extended her finger to show a minute grain of sand.
“I want to see.” Sunshine charged up and the particle of sand was lost in a hurricane of breath.
“No, no, no,” said the aunt, seizing Bunny’s balled fist. “There’s more without number. There’s enough sand for everybody.”