The Tie

Today I gave a little talk about paddling safety as part of a Coast Guard education program. Afterwards, discussion with the other speakers led to the topic of certification of powerboat operators. That dredged up a memory for me. I told them I was certified. In 1963. I come from humble beginnings and my father often worked second jobs and came up with projects to help make ends meet. I was enlisted in these at an early age, being required to pull my weight. The primary project was acquiring retired police cars from the State of New Jersey at auction, restoring them and reselling. They were pretty easy to sell because they came with the powerful Ford Interceptor engine. One of the major aspects of the restoration was filling the three big holes (left from the siren, flashing light and whip antenna). We also picked up select other cars from junk dealers and other sources of lost causes. In this process, my father came across a derelict plywood runabout. We decided to restore this one for our own use. I would’ve been happy to rebuild it, speed tune the outboard and scorch the Delaware River. He, on the other hand, thought it would be a good idea to take a course and learn something about competent boat piloting. A novel concept. He signed us up for a Coast Guard course offered evenings at the local high school. Over the days this lasted, the instructor would joke about the possible ramifications when one of us outscored the other in the certification exam. I laughed along with him but it got me thinking about that. I decided I’d study for the test. Another novel concept. For me. This was well before the age of electronic scoring and posting results on the web. It would be weeks before the results were mailed out. I zipped home every day, determined to have the first look at the scores. When the day came, I was outmaneuvered by my mother, who was already dreading the possible conflicts. I ran into the kitchen and checked the mail pile. Nothing. I turned around and there she was, holding two envelopes aloft. I made a grab but she was too quick. She gave me mine but withheld the other. No amount of begging or cajoling could move her. It seemed to take an eternity for my father to get home. She presented his envelope, which he opened, shielding it from my view. Then, we engaged in a duel of wits, trying to get each other to cough up the number. When my mother had all she could endure of this, she commandeered the envelopes and perused the contents. “You both,” she announced, “got the same score.” What? Couldn’t be! We demanded to see the documentation. Still couldn’t be. I recalled all the instructor’s comments and couldn’t help but wonder if he had a thumb on the scale. Still do. So, with us equally qualified to pilot and make decisions, the tie eliminated any cause for argument between us. Yeah, right.