By Sunday evening, most of the weekend boaters had packed up and gone home, and I went down to the dock to see how it and our boat had fared.
Not well.
Traffic had been heavy all weekend, with boats racing by at full speed just yards off our dock, and our pontoon boat had bucked and pitched like a horse saddled for the first time. I'd checked on the lines and the fenders several times during the weekend and shook my fist at a boat pulling a water skier past our dock, sending out a wake that rivaled waves at the beach. For all the good it did.
By the time I made my inspection Sunday evening, the accumulated idiocy had taken its toll. A stout, well secured dock cleat had been yanked so violently that it had come loose, but not before the dock board it was anchored to and the banding it was nailed to had pulled loose.
Here I am left to repair the damage caused by inconsiderate idiots.
It made me long for an earlier time when there were fewer boatmen and a certain pride in seamanship. That seamanship included adherence to a code of conduct that included fundamental courtesy toward other craft and to those ashore. We learned and relearned that as the operator of a vessel you are responsible for damage caused by your wake.
There were fewer boats then, and they were less powerful. In some ways, they required more skill to operate, and there was some sense of fraternity among boatmen. (There were exceptions, of course, just fewer of them.)
Now any idiot who can pass a fairly simple test can twist the key of a high powered boat and go roaring off unshackled by the bonds of common courtesy.
Under the law, boaters are still responsible. Alabama law's definition of reckless operation of a vessel includes "willful or wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property... ."
Careless operation includes "endangerment of life, limb or property."
Those rules are included in the leaflet "Alabama Boating Laws and Regulations that you can find at most marinas and at many sporting goods dealers.
Enforcement of the law is spotty though. The Marine Police are stretched pretty thin, and Lake Martin is a big body of water.
Boorishness on the water is just a small part of the me first attitude that prevails in so much of our culture.
Meanwhile, I'm considering investing in a small canon and perhaps a few mines.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Of Course I'll Go Back to the Shop
My brother, my sister and I concluded not long ago that our real hobbies are work. When our two boys were lazy adolescents, they used to kid, "Well, you know, before breakfast Dad has installed a sprinkler system and found a cure for cancer."
So it is with some difficulty that I am spending a great deal of time sitting around with my left hand elevated to try to reduce the swelling in my mangled-but-repaired left thumb.. (I should note here that we are fortunate to have an institution like UAB Hospital so near, and I was even more fortunate that Dr. Ian Marrero was available. I am told he is the person you want to fix your hand, and I will endorse that statement.)
I was fretting the other day about all of the things I need/want to do, but I reminded myself, "Well, dimwit, if you hadn't stuck your thumb in the table saw you wouldn't be having to work on the patience thing."
The reactions I get from acquaintances has been interesting. Sympathy, of course. Some people recall their own close calls – anyone who has spent any time working with power tools has had a close call – or talk about someone they know who did. Some people ask whether I plan to stay away from power tools. I tell them I think I'll just call Blue Cross and tell them I'm planning to make some more Adirondack chairs and they will say, "hey, we'll bring you some. What color do you want?"
It's funny. A friend of mine had a moment of inattention not long ago and crashed his car. I'll bet no one will ask him whether he plans to stop driving.
Of course I will go back to the shop -- just as quickly as I am able. A saw is no more dangerous than an automobile. Both will let you get away with being careless, until that they don't. I will just look at what's left of my thumb and use it as a reminder to pay more attention to the things that can hurt you.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
So it is with some difficulty that I am spending a great deal of time sitting around with my left hand elevated to try to reduce the swelling in my mangled-but-repaired left thumb.. (I should note here that we are fortunate to have an institution like UAB Hospital so near, and I was even more fortunate that Dr. Ian Marrero was available. I am told he is the person you want to fix your hand, and I will endorse that statement.)
I was fretting the other day about all of the things I need/want to do, but I reminded myself, "Well, dimwit, if you hadn't stuck your thumb in the table saw you wouldn't be having to work on the patience thing."
The reactions I get from acquaintances has been interesting. Sympathy, of course. Some people recall their own close calls – anyone who has spent any time working with power tools has had a close call – or talk about someone they know who did. Some people ask whether I plan to stay away from power tools. I tell them I think I'll just call Blue Cross and tell them I'm planning to make some more Adirondack chairs and they will say, "hey, we'll bring you some. What color do you want?"
It's funny. A friend of mine had a moment of inattention not long ago and crashed his car. I'll bet no one will ask him whether he plans to stop driving.
Of course I will go back to the shop -- just as quickly as I am able. A saw is no more dangerous than an automobile. Both will let you get away with being careless, until that they don't. I will just look at what's left of my thumb and use it as a reminder to pay more attention to the things that can hurt you.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A New Charge: Murder of a Culture
I am in mourning for the people of my home state of Louisiana. Although I grew up in the northern part of the state, populated mostly by folks who moved west from Georgia and Louisiana, I have some roots in the south.
And I have developed a love for the generous, warm spirited people who make up the broad swathe of South Louisiana that is called Cajun Country. I like the strong sense of family. I like to sit in a café and watch people enjoying themselves and each other. Grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, and the kids, treating their meal as a celebration and not a refueling stop, getting up to dance to music that makes it hard to keep your feet still.
I like the fact that people are not too busy to stop and visit. The clock is not their master.
I like the slow movement of the bayou and the sunlight filtered through Spanish moss. And I like the marshes, where a single tree stands out like a beacon. And I don’t even have to talk about the food.
The Cajun culture has had an endangered existence. Years ago there were efforts to stamp out the French spoken in so many homes, much as there was an attempt to do away with the native languages of American Indians.  Fortunately, reason finally prevailed.
Then came the oil industry.
It brought jobs and some prosperity to what had been to largely subsistence economy. At the same time, it began slowly killing the place that is home to that unique culture. Oil exploitation required the cutting of canals, and swamps that had seen only trappers and fishermen became hosts for barges and drilling platforms.
The canals changed water flows and accelerated the loss of coastline.
Now the BP disaster.
It is like going from slowly poisoning a victim to garroting him.
I am not sure that most people understand the magnitude of the disaster that is unfolding.
It is one that will affect all of us for years to come.
But in South Louisiana, a unique way of life is dying.
If there is any justice – and I have very little confidence that there is – criminal charges will come out of this disaster.
I would like to add one: Murder of a culture.
Contact the writer at
billatthelake@gmail.com
And I have developed a love for the generous, warm spirited people who make up the broad swathe of South Louisiana that is called Cajun Country. I like the strong sense of family. I like to sit in a café and watch people enjoying themselves and each other. Grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, and the kids, treating their meal as a celebration and not a refueling stop, getting up to dance to music that makes it hard to keep your feet still.
I like the fact that people are not too busy to stop and visit. The clock is not their master.
I like the slow movement of the bayou and the sunlight filtered through Spanish moss. And I like the marshes, where a single tree stands out like a beacon. And I don’t even have to talk about the food.
The Cajun culture has had an endangered existence. Years ago there were efforts to stamp out the French spoken in so many homes, much as there was an attempt to do away with the native languages of American Indians.  Fortunately, reason finally prevailed.
Then came the oil industry.
It brought jobs and some prosperity to what had been to largely subsistence economy. At the same time, it began slowly killing the place that is home to that unique culture. Oil exploitation required the cutting of canals, and swamps that had seen only trappers and fishermen became hosts for barges and drilling platforms.
The canals changed water flows and accelerated the loss of coastline.
Now the BP disaster.
It is like going from slowly poisoning a victim to garroting him.
I am not sure that most people understand the magnitude of the disaster that is unfolding.
It is one that will affect all of us for years to come.
But in South Louisiana, a unique way of life is dying.
If there is any justice – and I have very little confidence that there is – criminal charges will come out of this disaster.
I would like to add one: Murder of a culture.
Contact the writer at
billatthelake@gmail.com
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