You can always tell a genuine pirate tale
aside from the rest. The majority have a hidden stash of
treasure, with a kidnapped maiden of an English noble, and
an evil, scurvy ridden, limping pirate. What separates a
genuine tale from the ordinary however, is the curse and
ship associated with the crew. It's unfortunate enough for
me to believe that the curses pirates had were real, because
there is no other solid explanation for certain things in
life.
My
father was raised in the Loire valley of France, with the
luxury of traveling to the Riviera for every vacation. The
contrast between the two areas is remarkable. One being a
rainy, cold, well-educated, proper city (renowned for it's
usage of the purist form of French), the other being a
beautiful, dry, country-like haven where all Southern European
cultures are meshed together from the beautiful Mediterranean
sea. As it was, he grew up with a great love of sailing in
open waters, traveling between islands, and swimming with
dolphins.
With
his kids, he tries to share this love, with Oregon weather,
flat lakes, and a curse of malfunctioning boats at his
disposal. When we sorted through our genealogy, we found that
there was once a Touzet in our family who was “professionally”
a pirate, stealing English ships and women. This is why I
believe in pirate curses, because my ancestor did something
screwy to bring an eternal damnation of malfunctioning boats
upon our name. Every single motorized boat my Dad has ever
purchased, has broken down at least three times in the middle
of a lake, with a brand new engine each time. Certainly not
coincidence.
“The
boat will work fine this time, I just had a mechanic put in a
brand-new engine”, my dad said. He spoke as if the engine
was going to fix everything, seemingly forgetting the past two
broken-down boats with “brand-new” engines. Regardless, I
was still convinced that our boat trip to Lake of the Woods
would be great. The food was stashed in coolers, with fresh
ice covering perishables, and our clothes were packed (I
remembered to bring several fresh pairs of underwear). So off
we went, departing from Medford at roughly 4:30 P.M.
At
roughly 5:15 we arrived at the Fish Lake boat ramp. By that
time in our lives, my brother and I were professionals at
staying out of father's way while unloading the boat. My
father insisted that he do it right the first time, so as not
to look like a hopeless Frenchman in front of the locals. So
we knew to hang back far enough to be out of arm's reach, but
still stay at a grumble's notice. Within ten minutes, the boat
was lazy in the calm lake of a late spring afternoon.
Calmly,
we traveled across the lake looking for a soft beach to anchor
in for the evening. I enjoyed watching the trees shift on the
shore, as we traveled at a speed of ten miles an hour, with an
occasional splashing of my hands in the white water spraying
around the sides of the boat. A cool droplet would glance my
brow here and there, bringing a remembrance of my body with
the freshness of the outdoors.
Bending
down to try and scoop the moving water into my hands, I
noticed a movement from the corner of my eye, just in time to
be assaulted with an abundance of cool water across my
derrière. As I watched the pure amusement dance on my brother’s
face, I couldn't help but think of one thing. Absolute
vengeance. I quickly grabbed a Daisy paper cup from the
cooler, and swung it with my arm across the side of the boat,
trying to keep full eye contact with my younger brother while
gathering ammunition. I knew that watching the horrific
transition on his face was half the pleasure, the other half
was knowing that being the bigger, older brother, he had no
chance of retaliation.
Advancing
towards the prey, I took my time to enjoy his fanatic screams
of mercy, as he inched backwards towards the edge of the boat.
He was mine. I drew my arm back from behind my head, engaged
in the see-saw effect of his body slowly shrinking for
desperate protection. Expecting to hear a final scream of
bloody murder as I drew back the last few inches, I was
shocked at the sound suddenly roaring from the rear of the
boat.
“Peute
merde!”, my father cried. I looked to find him frantically
checking the engine as smoke billowed out. I could hardly see
his movements the smoke was so thick! Turning around, I
checked that my brother’s life jacket was secured, and
yelled, “Get ready to jump!” He nodded a frightened
acknowledgment. My attention was then focused on my father.
It
was only a matter of ten seconds before my father's European
temper kicked in. Abandoning the hope of repairing the engine,
he switched to the good old custom by crunch method. I doubt I
shall ever see someone beat a piece of metal with their fists
as passionately as he was...
Seeing
no sense in continuing to watch my father perform a “Chuck
Norris” on the engine, I shifted my gaze towards the lever
of the boat that controls the speed. Reaching out and grasping
it, I yanked back as hard as I could, in an attempt to slow
the engine.
The
smoke cleared with the maddened French insults. Once again,
the lake was calm, with the soft chugging of our boat at two
miles an hour. Though something was different. I squinted my
eyes in an attempt to see the tree lines ahead of us. Raising
my wrist, I had to focus to see the numbers on my watch
clearly. It was 7:30, and quickly getting dark. Time had
passed so rapidly, we never noticed the darkening of the sky.
Pushing
through the lake, we managed to locate a spot to drop the
anchor, and pitch our tents on the moss covered beach. My dad
began cooking a can of beans, while my brother and I prepared
the hot dogs over the crackling camp fire. I asked what we
were to do about the engine, and my dad replied that we would
just have to take it slow in the morning. “Maybe we should
get a sailboat next time, all the bad luck comes from
motorized boats”, he said. But I had to disagree, because
the curse is impartial to boat types.
