Three Covenant Boat Rides
Although the Covenant is boldly non-creedal, it does recognize the Trinity. These three stories, though three in number, are neither holy nor illustrative of anything other than that, over the course of a few decades, there have been Covenant adventures on the water outside of the land of 10,000 lakes (and 1,000 fish).
1962. It was, even then, an old boat and an older motor. Covenant Harbor on Lake Geneva was still home to a round-bottom, wooden row boat with a chipped-varnish interior and dark green hull. My friend, Royce Husted, had glommed onto an ancient outboard motor and needed a place to test it after his own version of a tune-up. Given the similar ages of boat and motor, a brief relationship seemed appropriate. The motor was long on low-end unit and control handle (approximately 3′ long); it was opposed in cylinder layout. Because of a surprisingly high compression ratio, it had a decompressor which permitted old men and young boys to turn it over by using a hand-wound starting rope. It did not have a transmission.
After affixing this large, heavy outboard to the transom of the now overloaded row boat, we set out for deeper open water where there was little chance of a collision if it actually caught fire and ran.
After tinkering with the fuel-mixture spark advance, and with compression released, one cylinder fired, then the next. The outboard, though old, had great power and one speed: wide open. When the throttle was tweaked, the engine, though warm, died.
Prudence was not our long suit in those days; fearlessness and strength were. While I sat in the bow, facing aft, Royce rewound the rope sorter and pulled; again the engine came to sudden and torque-filled life. Both cylinders fired; it pivoted on the transom, and the long control arm hit Royce and knocked him over the side. It began an increasingly fast spin on its stern. As the speed increased, the bow rose and the stern sank. It filled with Lake Geneva’s finest spring-fed water, which, though pure, is much better outside of the boat.
On a whim, I managed to pull the bow over as the boat sank, trapping air underneath it. As it came over, the engine quit due to interrupted fuel flow or water ingestion.
Royce and I swam the boat back to the Harbor. In approximately six feet of water, we righted the boat, which, though wooden, sank.
Once we removed the submerged motor, the boat achieved a negative buoyancy and was re-floated and returned to less volatile service. To my knowledge, the old motor never ran again. To the dismay of Scandinavians, yes, it was an irascible Swede: a Johnson.
1966-67. Ships Company U.S.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt CVA-42, capital ship of the line U.S. Navy. Cuba, Brazil, Philippines, Vietnam, Japan, China, South Africa, Italy, Spain, Monaco, France, Greece, Malta: some boat ride!
1991. It was in Lake Washington, Washington. It was to have been a pleasant tour of the lake, locks, and harbor, complete with a light dinner and beautiful sights by sunlight and starlight. The watercraft was a boxy, flat-bottomed riverboat, reconfigured for mild cruises for visitors to the pacific northwest. We were that, we Covenant Retirement Communities (CRC) board members and staff, as we set out from Mercer Island — friends and fellow workers, happy for a few hours of pleasant company on the water. For most of the outing, it was just that, including a water-borne view of the University of Washington stadium, a view of the Seattle skyline, and of arriving and departing seaplanes low overhead.
There is a curious phenomenon that travelers experience: the return trip, although similar in distance, always seems shorter. That illusion was not preserved on this adventure. Although we did not know it, our return was in question from the start.
As night fell and the clear skies sported tiny stars, the wind picked up from the Southwest. We were through the locks by then and in a slight lee shore. As we worked our way out onto Lake Washington, the wind, which had been an annoyance, became fierce.
Can you remember the story of “The Little Engine That Could,” that supreme effort to haul the circus toys over the mountain? The train’s distant cousin, our riverboat, now a lake ferry, chanted and then pounded out the same motto, “I think I can, I think I can”! The Covenant faithful were cleared from the topside deck. As the procession below dragged on, progress on the water halted: I think I can, I think I can, the chant continued. It continued even as flying plexiglas shattered and cut Grant Erickson above the eye. Minor medical treatment slowed then stopped the flow of blood. The boat had stopped, too, although the chant, I think. . ., continued in vain. We too began to think. . . .
The phrase, “any port in the storm,” took on new meaning. We learned that the Coast Guard, by faint radio transmission, had informed our now-anxious skipper that there were no ports at all. The far north shore had not receded as we failed to beat southward. It began to appear as though the boxy boat, now a huge sail, would be forced northward while making every effort to sail in the opposite direction.
“Even the wind and water obey him!” Luke 8:25. But there was no command. I suspect that a few prayers were offered, however. The chant continued, I think I can, I think I can. All of the thinking and exhortation did little, but a change in wind direction did a bit more. We were permitted to head for a fair, previously unknown (to us), western shore. Slowly, steadily and softly we reached it. Softly, because, rather than firm moorings, we reached a floating pier that pitched in marked contrast to our now resting craft. It took an ex-sailor (this writer), a current sailor (Mark Olson), and other brave lads and lassies to straddle the floating, pitching sections while guiding trusting souls to firm footing. We learned later that we had found our way to a yacht club, which, though reluctantly, temporarily accepted the grateful passengers. Once everyone was safely set on land, we moved en masse to a local restaurant/ tavern where land-based transportation was provided. Outside, blown-over trees bore witness to the power of the wind.
I had expected that the preachers in the group would have been provided with a striking personal experience upon which to base an illustration for sea-based miracle hermeneutics. To my dismay, this has not yet occurred. Perhaps a sinking or soaking would have made a more lasting impression on the clerics (no Baptists were on board, so this type of immersion would probably have been unique and thus more significant). Grant Erickson healed well; and, although this event has disappeared into the recent past, its impact lingers. There have been no further attempts at water-oriented recreation for any of us, other than an occasional immersion in various hot tubs by our resident Baptist (BGC), Ric Olson. Still the spirit of adventure remains as we anticipate perhaps another aquatic junket. What a boat ride!
This ends the trinity of non-Minnesota tales of water-borne adventure. I suspect that there are other readers who may have experienced similar thrills. I hope that, if published, the citizens of the land of TWINS, VIKINGS, TIMBERWOLVES, AND NORTH — oops NO-STARS, will condescend to us outlanders and let other writers circulate their stories for other Covenant cruisers to enjoy.
Yours, in salt or fresh water.