4 Boys, a Boat, and a Monster
A True Story, I Swear
First, a confession, prefaced by a brief reminder that ‘weird’ covers everything from refusing chocolate to bat-shit crazy.
For example, I have never been abducted or probed by aliens. I haven’t, though I’m not sure I’d admit it if I had. I mean, how could I ever face a priest again?
Still, those who have been snatched from their beds and subjected to invasive cold metal have always seemed to be a type — single and living just outside of town with lots of time on their hands to go splorin’.
Somewhat less ‘out there’ are the Sasquatch hunters and those who claim to have seen a legendary creature.
I’m one of them.
It was July something, 1977, in Penticton, British Columbia. I remember it was hotter than Africa and my father refused to turn on the air-conditioner in the Pontiac because it halved the mileage from a litre of gas.
“It’s no different than Tsavo, or Marsabit,” was his response to every complaint from the back seat.
Fortunately, the campground was well-shaded and graced with a cool breeze coming off Lake Okanagen, Canada’s version of a Scottish Loch. The analogy doesn’t stop there, but we’ll get to that in a bit.
Anyway, it was a beautiful day aside from the heat, so my brothers and I negotiated a compromise with dad. We wanted to go water-skiing. He wasn’t interested, but he was duty-bound to maintain a minimal level of supervision because there were four of us, and everyone a teenager.
“Rent the boat and come straight back here. You can ski on this side of the lake,” he said.
Fair enough, I thought. It was all the same water. I grabbed my book and my dope and off we went.
I hadn’t been back in Canada for very long then and had yet to get my driver’s license. I could drive — of course, I could drive — but my not having a license never presented as a problem in Kenya.
So number 2 son drove — our father thought it hilarious to number us when we four were together in public. We let him have his fun and called him ‘Pop’ in crowds.
So, 2-son was driving, 3-son sat next to him and I sat in the back with 4-son. It was easier to roll on the rear seat. Don’t judge me. It was a different time then, and I was responsible to keep them safe, not denying their happiness.
2-son used his license to rent the boat, which had two seats and benches behind them. We chose our skis, donned our life vests, climbed in, and pushed away.
2-son was eleven months younger than I, so for a month each year, my authority went out the window as far as he was concerned. But, due to his having had more time to acclimate to Canada, I was happy to let him drive while I sat at the rear and read.
4-son sat opposite me on the other bench. 3-son, had he been asked, would have claimed the role of navigator, but his true task was to alert me if 2-son exceeded his skill level vis-à-vis the boat.
We headed across the water to the campground. All was perfect — until it wasn’t.
One moment I was reading, the next I was flying — with some serious air time too, I’ll have you know.
Splash! I hit the water head-first and my glasses slid off. Fuck. I tore at the ties of the vest as I watched my glasses sink. Shrugging out of my safety device, I clawed after my specs.
Only to have a giant black — thing — swim under me. Fuck my glasses, I thought and pulled towards the surface.
What a mess. It was utterly silent. Headcount, I thought. Everyone answered, but the 4-son was crying. And with good reason — he was caught between the rear hull of the boat and the rubber bumper, right beside the outboard. Had the motor not died, the 4-son might never have walked again.
The other two were collecting errant skis as I released 4-son, and it was then I noticed the only part of the boat not submerged was the top decking. And someone had hit the windshield because it was held in place by a single screw.
Okay, I thought. We’re in the middle of a lake, but we’re uninjured, we have life vests but don’t need them because we were good swimmers. The boat, though —
2-son got the outboard running, so we clung to the outside and steered — away — from the campground. I needed to think.
It was worse than I imagined. Way worse. The left side of the bow had been shorn from the deck, the fibreglass starred and buckled and beyond repair — by us, at least.
So I did what I could. I kicked it back into shape.
I pulled a screw from the windshield and handed it to 3-son. “Find me some green branches slightly thicker.”
2-son and I opened the sea-cocks to drain the water while 4-son scavenged an old coffee tin to bail what wouldn’t drain.
3-son returned and I set to fixing the windshield. I plugged the sheared holes with green twigs and hammered the screws in with rocks.
“Anyone see what we hit?” I asked.
3-son said, “Nope.”
“No. And there was nothing in the water,” 2-son assured me. “No log, nothing.”
“Unh-uh,” said 4-son.
“Me neither,” I said. “But, as I went down for my glasses, I swear the Ogopogo monster swam under me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say anything ‘til now,” 4-son said.
“So now what do we do?” 3-son asked.
I walked over to the wreck. “Well, the water’s out, the engine runs and the windshield won’t fall off on the way back.”
“What about the side?” asked 2-son.
“Drape a towel over it and park with that side away from the dock. Make sure you accidentally forget the towel until after they look the boat over.”
As 2-son and 3-son took the boat back — our two hours were more than expired — 4-son and I began the walk back to the campground.
Now was the hard part. Coming up with a story that explained the loss of my glasses, my book, and my dope which my father wouldn’t see through.
4-son was still poking holes in my tail when the others pulled up in the car.
We got away with it. And even better, my father never found out.
I know what I saw. I could have touched the bloody thing. The Ogopogo monster lives.
Believe it.
