It was about 10 a.m. on the day before Thanksgiving. I needed a break, so I called the office and told Jane, my assistant, that I had some errands to run and that I would be in a little later. She said something like ...”yeah, right.” Jane knows that when I say “errands,” I really mean “I’m on the boat.” I justify my indulgence with self-talk such as, “but I work hard for my clients,” or “there is a lot of risk in being a small-town lawyer.” Excuses all. The fact is that I would rather be on Island Girl than at the office. To be frank, I would rather be on Island Girl than just about anywhere else. Thanksgiving is my normal winterizing time. When I first got into powerboating 30 years ago, I was a lot more uptight about cold weather, and I would button things up before the first frost. I am more relaxed now. After 30 years of fooling around with boats, I have never suffered a freeze-related engine problem. I also figure Island Girl was designed to float, not sit on four small pads of plywood in the parking lot of the marina, so I keep her in the water most of the time. Island Girl’s engines are freshwater-cooled Chevy smallblocks. As long as she remains in the water, the temperature in her engine water jackets is a few degrees higher than the air. The main reason I wait to winterize is that I am ever-hopeful there will be a warm day in December, January, or February, and I will be required to run some “errands.” I have played hooky from work on many a January day. I arrived on A-Dock with my winterizing gear which consists of a weathered five-gallon joint compound bucket (still has dried joint compound around the edges), a screwdriver, and a five-year-old can of fogging oil. There was a parking spot right next to the boat. I unloaded six gallons of red RV antifreeze from the back of the truck. Every year, I make a mental note to clean the pail thoroughly, but I never actually get around to cleaning it. I did not see anyone in the yard. Joe Reid’s golden retriever, Hiatt, was lounging in the back seat of Joe’s old Volvo wagon, with one dirty, matted paw hanging out the door, looking like a truck driver with a greasy fist taking a break from a long run. The doors to the shops were closed. I was a little disappointed. One of the best parts about going down to the boat is the exchange of insults between the guys who actually know how to work on boats and me, a guy who reads about working on boats and tries to follow instructions. The banter typically goes like so: Keith Gunther upon seeing me carrying tools: “Ya know they have professionals who are trained to do that?” Me: “Oh yeah, do you know where I can find one?” Mick Jones after observing me open the engine hatches. “Ya sure you know what you’re doing there?” Me. “Yes, I am looking for that six-pack of Pabst that I put down here a couple weeks ago. Should be nice and cold by now.” The theme of the exchange is the same every time. The guys know that I will probably strip something, lose something, overtighten something, or miswire something; they are placing bets on which shop will get my money. They pretend to be working on other jobs now, but I know they are watching my every move, waiting for me to do something incredibly stupid. I admit that I often do stupid stuff on the boat and that the Holiday Point experts have rescued me on more than one occasion. However, that does not deter me from my mission this morning. Jones is the official greeter. He sports a full gray beard and could pass for Santa Claus. The other guys begin to wander from their shops now, like vultures circling a wounded animal. Keith Gunther is standing a few yards away pretending to work on a project in his shop. Tommy Gunther works on a sport-boat on a trailer in front of his shop and grumbles under his breath about the indignity of working on boats that are not well cared for by their owners. I listen and nod my head as Tommy mutters something such as, “Ought not even bother to winterize this thing ... It’s got a hole in one of the pistons from letting the manifolds and risers go too long...” By now, everyone at Holiday Point is watching me winterize Island Girl. It reminds me of pulling up to a fancy waterfront restaurant where all the patrons can watch you back into your slip in a cross breeze. You know they are all waiting, eagerly, for you to accidentally hit the throttles as you shift into reverse ... and don’t pretend you have never accidentally hit the throttles. Well, to the resounding disappointment of my audience, I proceeded to fill my five-gallon pail with RV antifreeze and place it in the bilge between the two engines. I loosened the hose clamps on the raw water intakes, pulled the spark arrestors off the Rochester four-barrels, pumped a little raw gas into the throat of the carbs, and using the homemade remote starter switch I assembled from scraps of wire about 20 years ago, cranked those Chevy small blocks to life. The raw-water intake hoses quickly drank their fill of antifreeze. As the last drop of antifreeze disappeared from the bucket, I shot a stream of fogging oil into the carbs till the engines died. I looked up from my place in the bilge, hoping to see Tommy, Keith, or Mick looking down approvingly at my success. The finger pier was empty. My audience, realizing there would be no calamity to amuse them, had returned to work. Feeling quite satisfied with myself, I cleaned up my mess, poured a little leftover antifreeze in the head, wiped down the overhead liner with some vinegar, soap, and water and sat at Island Girl’s dinette in a pool of warm winter sunshine. I opened my log-book, entered the date and made this entry, “Thanksgiving 2013. Winterize port and starboard engines. Fog through the carbs. Check and charge batteries. Talk with Tommy Gunther about replacing center fiberglass tank...” Today I did not lose anything, strip anything or cross any wires. And I know, as do the boys at the yard, it is just a matter of time... by Allen Paltell