Claus announced he was going jogging and asked if I would go with him. I used to like jogging but now I hate it. I told him I’d bike alongside him.
We were down by the lake and I saw the first boats of the season out on the water. There were a couple sailboats. There were yachts that had been moved into the marinas from wherever they live the rest of the year. I didn’t see any motorboats but I thought of one.
A few years ago, I dated a stock trader who had a great laugh, a strong jawline, and an almost suspicious adherence to social etiquette at all times. He also had a whole bunch of Richie Rich toys, including a Maserati, a Porsche, and a BMW, which was his plain ol’ everyday car, unless you counted the Dodge Ram truck he needed to haul around cases of fine wine he bought at auction, marble slabs for his renovation project(s), and his cigarette boat.
A cigarette boat is sleek and slender and long and often white, but those aren’t the qualities that give the cigarette boat its name. They were used for smuggling stuff like cigarettes in the 1960s, so the Internet says. They do have a reputation for being used for nefarious purposes. Similar boats were called “rum-runners” in the ’20s, and we all know people were smuggling adorable kittens during prohibition. Cigarette boats can go extremely fast (100mph), they’re sexy, and they’re expensive. All of this appealed to my boyfriend, so he bought one.
One perfectly formed summer day, we took a ride. Everything was shiny. The sun shone off the water; the sun shone off the hull. The sun shone off my sunscreened shoulders; the sun shone off the two bottles of Champagne we put in the cooler. The sun shone off both of our sunglasses as we motored out past the lock.
When my friend hit the gas, I remembered that I am not a daredevil. Risks I take are the feet-on-the-ground kind, e.g., reading a long book, changing my dinner reservation. After I got over the initial shock of going that fast over a large body of water, I relaxed. I was reminded that none of us have any control over our life/death at any time; I was just being sharply confronted with this fact. The water was so choppy the further out we got and we were going so fast, we were catching air. We were jumping 100% out of the water and then would slam back into the lake. Bang! Spray! Bang! Spray! It was exhilarating and amazing; it was not something I needed to do often.
We slowed. I’d say “we dropped anchor” but that is not correct; we just stopped and bobbed around for awhile. We drank cold Champagne. We talked about how fast we were going just now. There may have been some monkey business, but I can’t possibly admit that sort of thing here, you understand. I’ve played on Lake Michigan’s beaches since I was a small child; I continue to find new ways to love that thing and in turn, it loves me back in surprising ways.
My friend and I dated on and off again for a little under two years, but we only took the boat out that one time. The first season we might have, but it was in the shop. The next time we could, we did, as detailed above. And then things ran their course with the two of us; that isn’t just another blog entry — it’s another blog.
Chicago boat season is upon us, then. I know there’s a single girl out there tonight who will take her first cigarette boat trip this summer. Hey, honey: wear the vintage 1970s mint green bathing suit with the slats cut out on the sides. Take the Ray-Bans, not the other ones. Hold tight.
