Living in Beaufort, NC, Rebuilding Boats

Alice down the rabbit hole

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I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. One minute, I was in my nice, cozy boat, on the hard, with the sturdy ladder leaning against the side. The next minute, I’m FLOATING. In water. My whole view on life has changed. No longer is the water “over there.” Now it’s “right here.”

Flutterby left the water on December 13, 2007, at 1421 hours. She returned to her native element on November 30, 2010, at 1448 hours. Our three-month project took us three years.

Watching our boat finally launched after three years
Flutterby floats gently on the water

After the launching, things got very exciting. Ted handed me a bottle of champagne, courtesy of Malla, who always knows how to do things right. Barry was already on the boat, checking the bilges and hauling up the centerboard. I clambered across the plank that Richard laid down, and we rechristened her by pouring (smashing is only for big ships) champagne over the bow.

“I christen thee Flutterby!”

When I looked up, there were about a dozen people on the dock and six cameras pointed at us. It was a very, very happy and exciting moment to share with the dear friends we’ve found here at Bock Marine. Kenny took some pictures for Nancy. Even Carolyn came out of the office to see us floating in the ways.

Now it’s quiet, except for the sound of water lapping against the hull. (And Kris snoring.)

Very soon now, we’ll be slipping our lines and heading south to Florida. So my trip down the rabbit hole continues. Or maybe I just feel that way because I’m going to be upside down in the lazarette for the next few days, stowing things for the trip.

Friends Along the Way, Limericks, Messing About in Boats

Definition of the word friend

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Thus spoke Kris: “Folks, you’re doin’ it wrong,
Three years on the hard is too long.
Yes, the boatyard is great
And the folks are first-rate,
But the WATER is where you belong.”

You are probably saying, “I told you the same thing.” But where are you? Kris put his money where his mouth is, and came halfway ’round the world to help us splash! So he gets the reward … TODAY …
(=<

Friends Along the Way, Limericks, Messing About in Boats

Attitude adjustment

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“If you say this is work, I’ll not stay,”
Said our friend Kris, who’d come all the way
Here from Capetown, to get
Flutterby’s bottom wet,
“So let’s not call it ‘work’ — call it PLAY!”

In two days, Kris and Barry and I have played with … sanders and grinders and saws and drills and dremels and screwdrivers … epoxy and polysulfide goop and solvents … impellers and zincs and hoses and clamps and backing plates … the list goes on and on. We’re all enjoying the work and we’ll be floating very, very, VERY soon!

For those of you wondering how we managed to get the world’s absolute best crew member from South Africa, I wrote about some of our earlier adventures with Kris in 2007 and in 2004.

Friends Along the Way, Living in Beaufort, NC, Rebuilding Boats

Crew Wanted

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In a recent post, I mentioned a boat hailing from HAMBURG – GER. There’s another boat here, with a similar name — for the purposes of this story, I’ll call it FRANKFURTER. For some reason, the owner doesn’t have a name; he goes by the name of the boat. We’ll call him “Frankfurter,” too.

For the past few years, Frankfurter and FRANKFURTER have gone south for the winter and returned to Bock to store the boat in the summers. The man always sets off with a crew of four: Himself, Jack, and two crew members he rounds up somehow, probably on the internet. Each year, Jack and Frankfurter return, sans crew.

Laid-back Jack laughs and shrugs, “He’s impossible. I’m the only one who can put up with him.”

This year, Jack wasn’t available, so Mr. Frankfurter rounded up three crew members on the internet. The first one to arrive was a very experienced sailor who worked diligently alongside the captain to make fiberglass repairs and paint the bottom. A few days later came a wide-eyed, clean-cut young man from Europe who didn’t have offshore experience, but was even harder-working than the first. By now, the first one had been driven to drink — I caught her hiding under FLUTTERBY one day, sneaking a drink from a pocket flask.

We told the first crew member, Ziga, that she need not drink alone. With that, she brought her sense of humor and excellent sea stories to the nightly happy hour gathering. She positioned her chair behind Jack’s keel, directly across from FRANKFURTER, so she could keep an eye on her boat without being seen by her captain.

One evening, she peered around Jack’s keel as her captain’s car returned from town. “Oooh, that’s our new crew member,” she said. “Captain’s really looking forward to this one. She’s a dominatrix.”

This took me by such surprise that I swallowed the wrong way and started coughing. Surely I’d heard that wrong? “What!?” I squeaked. Ziga explained, matter-of-factly, “A dominatrix. You know, whips and chains? The captain calls her ‘the fetish lady.'”

We all peeked around Jack’s keel as the captain — who rarely bathed, according to Jack –  helped a good-looking blonde woman out of the car. The young clean-cut crewman went to the trunk for her luggage. What he pulled out was not the usual sailor’s duffel bag, but a crate you could use for carrying chains and things made out of studded leather. There was something black dangling from her pocket. “Is that a whip?” I asked the group, ducking nervously out of sight.

It was a well-known fact that the captain didn’t dare stop at any port before Key West, for fear that his crew would jump ship. And so the betting began. Would the dominatrix and the clean-cut guy make it to Key West? Would Ziga make it through the winter with a captain who rarely bathed?

When FRANKFURTER was ready to go, several of us pressed our email addresses into Ziga’s hand. “Good luck. Let us know what happens. Please!”

The results were nothing short of spectacular. By that, I mean the three-page email we received from Ziga a few days later.

The email spread around the boatyard like wildfire and was forwarded to friends and cruisers all over the world. Her synopsis went like this: “Landlubber equivalent of this boat trip:  Drive an old car that is loaded with junk like the Beverly Hillbillies, with bald tires, faulty brakes and windshield wipers that only work when the sun is out.  And the driver really does not care which side of the road he drives on…..”

Before the boat had even left Beaufort inlet, it was taking on water uncontrollably, and they’d deployed the anchor and nearly lost it. From the email: “Hey, Captain, the bitter end of the anchor rode is not secure! DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, says Captain Frankfurter.”

Then the young clean-cut fellow was knocked overboard by the captain (the boat has no lifelines), and the PFDs were all buried under piles of junk. “Hey, Captain, can we clear some of this clutter and clear the decks? DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, says Captain Frankfurter.”

Out in the ocean, they set a course for Key West. However, at one point, the captain accidentally started sailing north. The dominatrix fixed that, but the email didn’t say how. I suspect a whip was involved.

After the first day, Ziga wrote, “Told Captain that I was leaving the boat as soon as we reached shore.  Told him flat out that he was trying to kill me, and that just won’t do.” This is the woman who was planning to stay aboard all winter.

On page 2, she described how almost every part of the boat, including the charts and food, was soaked from leaks. Only the aft cabin was dry. On page 3, she wrote, “Aft cabin now mostly soggy, because Captain left the toilet on water intake….flooded his own boat. All three of us have now told Captain that we want off of the boat.”

The young clean-cut crew member had been incapacitated by seasickness the entire time, including 20 hours passed out in the aft cabin (before the captain flooded it with water from the toilet). Towards the end of the ordeal, when he perked up, Ziga wrote, “He is a charming fellow, when he does not have his head in the black bucket.  That bucket has been his constant companion for a long time.”

This paragraph just about sums it up:

“Engine died just after the sun set. Under the jib, can only sail 330 degrees, boat won’t turn any farther east. The Auto-pilot won’t completely release the wheel.  Heading way out into the Gulf Stream now, way, way off course. Cabin is trashed. Unsecured stuff crashing around everywhere. DONT WORRY ABOUT IT, says Captain Frankfurter. Tools, knives and boat parts left wherever Captain sets them. This is the first boat I have ever sailed on where I have to wear shoes below decks, or risk serious injury.”

With a tragedy like this, the betting pool didn’t have a chance. We had argued over which crew members would make it to Key West, not whether or not they’d survive the first 84 hours. None of us expected the boat to issue a Mayday call and be rescued by the Coast Guard. No one bet that they’d be towed into Southport, a mere 100 miles from here.

According to Ziga, despite the loss of his crew and near-loss of his boat, the captain is committed to continuing on. What she didn’t say was how he would find more crew.

I know exactly what he’d say if I asked: DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT.

—

Special thanks to Ziga for sharing the story and allowing me to excerpt it here. If you are ever looking for good crew, I’ll put you in touch with her. I have her email address…it’s at the top of that hilarious 3-page email message.

Living in Beaufort, NC, Rebuilding Boats

Messing about with boat … brokers

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In the middle of the boatyard, across from the Travelift, is a nightly gathering we call “happy hour.” It’s a misnomer, because it lasts a lot longer than an hour. Sometimes, it goes on all night, in which case it should be called “happy hours.” (That reminds me, there was once a boat here by that name. That story will come later.)

One evening last week, when I was alone on the boat, I poured myself a beverage and decided to take it to Happy Hour. I hate to drink alone, even if it’s just orange juice.

The usual suspects were sitting in a circle under Jack’s boat, four or five guys who take turns filling a communal cooler with exceedingly cheap beer. All of them are either single or abandoned by their wives for the duration of the haulout. The appearance of a human with two X chromosomes changes the dynamic slightly, as they sit up a little straighter and stop making fart jokes.

On this particular evening, we saw Peter, of GALAXIE, walking across the boatyard lugging a heavy item. “That looks like an alternator,” I said. The usual suspects looked at me with respect. Two X chromosomes, and she can pick out an alternator a block away. (They don’t know about the time one got dropped on my hand and smashed my wedding ring. I had it cut off, because it was no longer finger-shaped. The ring, not the finger.)

When Peter reached our group, the usual suspects said, “Have a beer with us.” With a sigh of relief, he set the alternator on a sturdy stepstool at the edge of the circle.

Peter, whose homeport is HAMBURG – GER, has a heavy German accent and a twinkle in his eye. Soon, we were all recounting our best alternator horror stories with much hilarity.

Along came a boat broker, intrigued by this jovial — and loud — gathering. “You guys must not get much work done,” said the man, who wore neatly pressed khakis, leather boat shoes, and a shirt with a collar. There was not a single drop of paint or epoxy on him.

Now, I have nothing against boat brokers — some of my favorite people sell boats for a living — but his comment put my hackles up. There we were, tired and messy from a day of physical labor, and he strolls up and impugns our work ethic.

I scowled at him. “You may not realize it, sir, but you’ve interrupted a very important religious ceremony,” I said, sternly. I can be quite a dragon when I choose, although the bright yellow Tweetie Bird sweatshirt diminishes the effect slightly.

The broker’s smile faltered, and he stopped, unsure if he was welcome. The other guys looked at me as if I’d sprouted another head. They’ve all seen me in dragon mode, and they know that I can bite.

I had the broker right where I wanted him. He was standing in front of the stepstool.

“Before you can come any further, you must pay homage to the ALTAR…” I said dramatically, pointing at the stepstool. The guys now looked at me as if I’d sprouted three heads, and I added: “…NATOR.”

My punchline was so unexpected that the usual suspects choked on their beer. Best of all, the boat broker was impressed enough that he actually did bow deeply, both to Peter’s alternator — and to me.

Awfully Funny, Friends Along the Way

The sillyness of Bill Brown

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Bill Brown's mischievious grin
Bill Brown's mischievious grin

When Barry and I learned last week that Bill Brown had died unexpectedly of a heart attack, it knocked the stuffing out of us. We hugged each other and cried for a while. And then I imagined Bill’s voice in my head, saying “Enough sillyness.” We got back to work on the boat.

There were a lot of people who disliked Bill Brown, but he didn’t seem to mind. His abrasiveness was a test. If someone concluded the worst, that he was obnoxious, pigheaded, or rude, then he’d plant his tongue firmly in his cheek and do his best to earn that reputation by “yanking their chain.”

Me, I liked Bill Brown a lot. Probably enough to make up for all the people in the world who didn’t like Bill Brown.

Bill was outspoken, honest, and one of the most supportive friends I’ve had in my entire life. We shared our sailboat cruising dreams with him, and he never spoke a disparaging word about how we pursued them. Bill never once teased us about the length of the FLUTTERBY refit. He was not only tolerant of our breaks from the boatyard, he reveled in our land-based travels and told me my writing was as good as William Least Heat-Moon.

Bill made me laugh when he wrote, “Tolerance is learned. Living aboard certainly teaches tolerance. Living aboard in a boatyard has gotta be the postgrad course in tolerance.” It was his way of saying that he understood what we were going through. Tongue-in-cheek, of course.

Right now, I know I should write something funny for Bill. He loved my writing and once said, “You guys have one of the widest ranges of humor of people I know.” I’m not finding the humor in his untimely kicking of the bucket, but because he was so irreverent, he would denounce anything serious as, well, sillyness.

I went through Bill’s most recent emails and decided to have the last laugh. I’m just going to publish Bill — in his own words. Now I’m off the hook, and I can go burble and cry all I want. He’s sure to make you chuckle…whether or not you’re an engineer.

***
“Life is much easier if one doesn’t have to make sense all the time.”
***
“When in a Wal-Mart out of dire necessity, I feel like the Starship Enterprise at the edge of known space in one of those scenes where Romulan and Klingon vessels are all loitering about waiting for the other guy to do something stupid first. I do not belong in a Wal-Mart. But I could enjoy being a tour guide in them. Just keep your phazer on stun. Or perhaps a can of whipped cream would be adequate protection but only if you were wearing your clown suit. ”
***
“There is no such thing as ‘too much sex’. Technically, it is considered self regulating.”
***
“Burning Man has franchises? Imagine that. How are you sure you are at a Georgia Burning Man and not at a KKK event?”
***
“…a cookbook is essentially a survival manual. Look in any Bible. Right after Revelations, the last book, you will find the Book of Betty Crocker stapled right in there.”
***
“Across most of America until, oh, roughly Ohio, a proper tavern is defined by a jukebox that has two songs: anything by Buddy Holly and ‘Party Doll’ by Buddy Parks. Surely somebody has sought to map this? Maybe it’s my calling.”
***
“These are people who believe ‘published’ means print on paper as in a page you can dogear. No way on this planet do I want my computer students dogearing a flat panel display. I am the one they will bring it to to fix. I don’t want to even think about dogearing a CRT monitor.”
***
“Aren’t you glad epoxy isn’t toothpaste!”
***
“My spell checker … does not yet recognize the term ‘Obama’. It does recognize ‘Barrack’… It recognizes ‘Lincoln’, ‘Eisenhower’, and ‘Johnson’. Interesting is that it will recognize ‘Abraham’ and ‘Dwight’, but not ‘Lyndon’… It doesn’t matter which side of the political spectrum you stand. You can neither praise nor condemn without having to deal with this in your spell checker.”
***
“The crap we fill our brains with amazes me.”
***
“Only an engineer type can spell ‘equilibrium’ without rum as a spellchecker.”
***
“I had cause to see if our tax dollars were being well spent so I called 911 as little else civic was going on on a Sunday. Sure enough, they hurried right out and hauled me to the ER where I got to see all of the neat new toys we just bought for our hospital expansion demonstrated to (on actually) me. No problem says they … The toys were actually fun as well as good to have handy…”
***
Regarding a Mac G3 laptop: “There is a story here. How did you come into this toilet seat?”
***
“You are looking way too serious. Rum will fix that. Always has. Always will.”
***
“Mainliners, heroine users, know that cutting pure heroine with talc and all those other contaminants is bad form. Same with rum. You cut it with Coke and other contaminants and, well, you have a contaminated experience. Proper rum has no commas or conjunctions following it with a list of contaminants like soda pop. At least not unless you want the headaches and barfing that come with contaminants. This is not to be confused with solid nutrition being used to supplement rum such as oatmeal, chocolate, coffee, or stimulants such as other medicinal alcohols or sex.”
***
“I am well aware that hitting the forward button is the only social skill, the only social life some people have.”
***
“I’ve always said I go to my high school reunions to see what I’ve overcome.”
***
“Puny Anacortes? We are talking the gateway to the San Juans here, western portal to the fabled Northwest Passage, western terminus of all the great roads west, and all you have to do to get here is hitch-hike the last sixteen miles. We don’t want a great thing to be too accessible.”
***
“From memory of my travels in that area (southeastern Ohio), if you had just gone down the road a coupla more blocks and turned left, you’d have found the Bates Motel – quite quaint and quiet for a forties era clapboard motel as i recall. You’d have wanted to avoid the shower though.”
***
“The title of this book, or chapter, will be ‘How I spent my winter in the Great Pacific Northwest living in a storage locker sorting crap I really didn’t need but couldn’t let go'”
***
“Killer Oatmeal washed down by a Coffee Herbie. Food of the GAWDS!”
***
“‘…squidwaggin’ ” as a verb sort of sounds naughty as if it has something to do with fallopian tubes. But we know it is just exquisite transportation.”
***
“Becoming single, Christmas became fun. BIGTIME! Single people have get togethers. Lots of get togethers. Go to interesting if cheap places. Gather our kids together in a big bunch. Do all sorts of things that we learn about might in some way be a Christmas sort of thing for someone. Theater, movies, tavern hopping, sailing someplace, sing our heads off, helping others as a group, the list goes on and on … I wondered why it wasn’t this way before. I guess it is because suburbia frowns on this sort of thing … Married again for some years now, this is still what we do… sort of.”
***
“Why can’t I make even a passable meatloaf? One of life’s great mysteries.”
***
“What (your boat’s name) looks like is not half so important as what it sounds like when hollering it on channel 16 as part of a mayday call.”
***
In response to my quip, “I should have just gotten into my birthday suit and stood on the foredeck with a bottle of shampoo,” Bill said, “Done this a few times in marinas. Only once, at Westview (Powell River) did anyone care. I had announced my intentions prior to doing so. When nearing the end of my disrobe, the genteel couple simply picked up their afternoon tea, stood, turned, and quietly walked to the the other end of their yacht. It was a very hot day, Sunday, which is the one day of the week in Westview that everything must be closed by local ordinance. That included the marina services including showers. Why else do cockpits have scuppers?”
***
Bill’s response to a limerick about toe amputation: “Hang 9?”
***
“To shinny is the only way to get a tetherball attached to the top of the tetherball pole. Free-climb does not even approximate the task. Free-climb is what you do on a walk to the top of Mt. Everest. You shinny a mast.”
***
“I really don’t have many good feelings about Wyoming. Being Dick Cheney hails from Wyoming, I’m not expecting any.”
***
Regarding a recent colonoscopy: “Frankly, I’ve had … many a drinking bout that ended far more dramatically. These passings, gas and otherwise, didn’t even earn bragging rights among those of a scatological bent … I’d had the fear that I was going to swamp the fifth wheel’s holding tank … Once again, we learn the awful truth. That the legend of The Great Hunt is really nothing more than a long walk on an empty stomach. So much for legends.”
***
“It’s not my place to whine and I’m not very good at it anyway.”
***
“My greatest reward is learning I caused an engineer to chuckle.”
***
“I’m not twisted. But I do think in ironious ways. The world about me, not being flat, is what is twisted.”

(After reading what Bill wrote to us all these years, I might add: And funny as hell.)

Current Events, Limericks

Pud muddle

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We were driving from Durham to ocean,
When we happened upon a commotion.
All the folks in a huddle,
Had been stopped by the puddle,
But it did not impede our car’s motion.

I’d been worried, unable to sleep,
For I feared that my friend’s trusty Jeep,
Might get stranded and drown,
In that flood, murky brown,
But the water was 2 inches deep!

At an ice cream shop in Vanceboro, North Carolina, the woman behind the counter told us she had to be rescued from her house that morning by boat. When we asked about any flooding on US 17 to the south, she said, dramatically, “The water is over the road up that way — and it’s rising.” Concerned, we hurried through our ice cream and got back on the road. We found the flooding, one block away. It was just a big puddle.
-30-

Friends Along the Way, Limericks

This little piggie went ouch

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“Well, they say that the piggie went ‘whee,’
“When they chopped it off, decisively,
“I look down and count nine,
“But I’m feeling just fine,”
Said my Dad, the new toe-amputee.

It was just a small infection that got out of control and landed him in the hospital. He’ll be out in a couple of days, and then he can figure out how to dance using nine toes instead of ten.

2010 The Squid Wagon Returns to Pasture (NC to WA)

Getting into a jam – by choice

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What has four letters, starts with a vowel, and has lots of corn and cows? Ohio. Iowa. Sometimes, it’s hard to keep them straight, even when you’ve lived in one of them.

Not sure what we're stopping for, but it looks interesting!

About fifteen miles into Iowa, a gigantic sign caught my eye. “World’s Largest Truck Stop.” There was a traffic jam associated with the world’s largest truck stop — the off-ramp was backed up with cars and semis. Traffic jams are unheard of in a place where cows outnumber people.

At 65 mph, I had only an instant to decide. I switched off the cruise control and joined the traffic jam.

The off-ramp was perched high above the truck stop, and we could see down into vast acres of trucks, cars, pedestrians, and — huh? Circus tents? What was going on at the world’s largest truck stop?

It felt surreal to follow signs for overflow parking without knowing why. The Squid Wagon was directed to a field, about a half mile from the center of the activity. Just after we’d locked up and grabbed cameras and sun hats, an ancient yellow school bus came by and picked us up. Someone handed us a program, which said, “Welcome to the 31st Annual Walcott Truckers Jamboree.” Bouncing the whole way, the school bus delivered us to the entrance of what the program said was “The Best Trucker Party in the Country! FUN! for all.”

Now, Barry and I are always looking at big trucks and asking each other, “What do you suppose that thing is for?” “Why is he doing that?” “What do you think is in there?” Since neither of us has ever been inside a semi, we spend a lot of time arguing about the possible answers, without any real facts on which to base our positions. We call it “talking out of our butts.”

Finally, we could get some answers. Just the previous day, we’d debated this one: Why pay to be weighed at a truck stop, when weigh stations do it for free? The first exhibitor at the show, a representative of CAT Scales, answered that one — truckers want to make sure the weight of their load is legal before they drive into a weigh station, where they will be fined if it’s not. Also, some loads, such as household goods, are charged by weight.

Lots of beer bellies and baseball caps in evidence at the truck display
I love the feet sticking out of the doors as these fellows peer inside the truck
The lines of this truck's grille are beautifully art deco.

We wandered the big tent, where exhibitors were touting everything from dip mixes to air filters and 12-volt mattress warmers. One driver had self-published a novel, but without an audio version, he wasn’t getting much interest from his fellow drivers. Trucking companies were handing out freebies to anyone with a CDL, hoping to recruit drivers. The American Lung Association and the Iowa Soybean Association, unrelated organizations with different interests, were both pushing biodiesel. I stopped to look at literature for Women in Trucking, and two women pounced on me as a potential member. Later, when I read their newsletter, I realized I should have asked about their Women in Trucking tattoos.

We left the exhibits and started strolling through the rows of trucks, taking pictures of shiny chrome and elaborate airbrushed graphics. What was the story on these trucks? Were they for sale, or just for show? Who had brought them?

The acres of blacktop gave off waves of heat, and the only shade came from the trucks themselves. We came upon a small group in folding chairs, chatting animatedly in the shade between two trucks.

A group of truckers hanging out in the shade of their trucks. The one on the left has a shower.

When questioned, they explained that they were owner-operators who came every year. I asked about their trucks, and one couple pointed to the one on the left, and other pointed to the one on the right. “Are you staying in your trucks?” I asked. “We’re staying in the hotel,” answered one of the women. “But they’re staying here. She has a real bathroom in hers, with a shower,” she said, enviously. The sleeper on the truck with the bathroom was about three times larger than other sleepers, and had larger windows. It looked like a very sturdy RV.

I was getting a glimpse of another world. Barry and I had learned a little bit about the RV crowd, mostly retired people who drive around the country and pay handsomely for the fuel to do so. Now we were meeting folks with smaller accommodations, but bigger rigs. They’re proud of the fact that they get paid to do their traveling.

I began to understand the event — an excuse for truckers to relax and spend time with people who understand their way of life. What we had stumbled upon was something like the Seven Seas Cruising Association Gam for offshore sailors, or the Sturgis, South Dakota, motorcycle rally. I even felt elements of our favorite annual event, Burning Man.

Like Burning Man, there was art: One man’s purple truck was airbrushed with shining white horses charging out of blue surf. The multi-talented owner-operator had painted it himself. Not only that, but he’d built the interior of the sleeper himself, the only one we saw that included a fireplace. We climbed up into the cab, with hundreds of shiny buttons and switches, to see the sculpture on the back wall of the sleeper, a continuation of the horses in surf theme.

The left side of the truck with the fireplace, original artwork by the owner/operator
The man who drives this truck is also the artist
This relief sculpture is not original, but was chosen to match the airbrushed artwork on the outside. Some of these sleepers are tres elegant on the inside!
This truck actually has a tiny fireplace in the sleeper
This is the cab of the truck with the fireplace and the horses and surf artwork. She's a beauty.
He just looks like an ordinary truck driver, but the man on the right is more than that -- he's the artist who created the truck shown above

The same man told us we absolutely had to stay for the nighttime party. He described the illuminated trucks in the Lights at Night Competition, and said people would be walking around and admiring each others’ trucks all night. There would be a fireworks show and a concert by big-name country musician Tracy Lawrence. I had to take his word that Tracy Lawrence is famous, having never heard of him, myself.

I seriously considered his recommendation to stay. I felt very welcome, and we could easily have hung out all day and through the night, partying with the big truck people (while listening to music we don’t like). But in the end, we decided to push on across Iowa and save our free time for places that were greener and cooler (and have better music).

We drove about 20 miles up the road and stopped at a rest area, where I struck up a conversation with the man who was cleaning the restrooms. He was a very overweight man, one of the largest I’ve ever seen, and admitted that he’d hardly been away from home. I sensed that working in a rest area made him restless, wishing to see more of the world. When I said that we’d just come from the big truck jamboree, his face lit up. “I’m going to that tomorrow,” he told me.

Then I started telling him what I’d heard about the nighttime party, the fireworks and the music and the illuminated trucks, and he got more and more excited. “I get off at nine,” he said, “so I’ll just go over there tonight!” I was glad that I’d given him a little excitement to look forward to. I was also glad that there would be one more person at the Jamboree to appreciate all the work that went into the decorated trucks.

Barry and I continued west on I-80, passing a few trucks and being passed by others. Each time, I thought of the person driving it, rather than just the vehicle. Were they aware of the party they were missing? Maybe they don’t like country music, either.

In the future, driving on the freeway, I’ll look up — because no matter how high the Squid Wagon is, trucks are always many feet higher — and feel a connection to the driver. And if he looks my way, I’ll give him a friendly wave. We might meet again someday, at the Walcott Truckers Jamboree. Next time, I’ll stay for the concert.

Some folks display their shiny truck engines. You can see my reflection on the right.
Barry's face is reflected in this truck's engine.
Friends Along the Way, Limericks, Our Limerick Life

Good night, star bright

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“Wow, your guest room is really bizarre,”
Said our friends, who had come from afar.
Just a tarp on the grass,
For this lad and this lass,
But they saw every bright falling star.

In the Pacific Northwest in summer, you can throw a sleeping bag on the grass and sleep outside. It’s heavenly during the Perseid meteor shower, when the stars are falling in streaks of yellow and white and blue across the sky … that’s what we did for two nights with our friends, Will and Tina.