A few years ago, Bill and I towed our boat, the Lil Skipper, down to Dale Hollow Lake. Dale Hollow is a big ol’ reservoir that begins in Kentucky and ends in Tennessee. Or the other way around, depending where you start. We’d had a little trouble on the road, so we were running late. We wanted to launch the boat before it got dark, so she’d be ready to leave our slip at daybreak. Usually, Bill puts me in the boat and backs the truck down the ramp, and I motor around while he situates the truck and trailer in the lot. And then I fetch him off an adjacent pier.
Tonight, however, he needed to be in the boat, because our slip was more than a mile away, driven at a no-wake speed. And it was past dusk. And he knew where he was going; I did not. So I very nervously said that I thought I could handle parking the boat trailer in the remote mountainside gravel lot. It was shaped like a wagon wheel, with plenty of space in the center for maneuvering. So as he reversed the Skip into the lake and putt-putted into the darkness, I pulled the trailer back up the steep driveway of Hendrick’s Creek Marina and Resort.
Knowing that there was no way I’d be able to back the trailer into a parking place, I pulled into the middle of the lot and shifted into park. My plan was to unhitch the trailer and drag it into place. I felt better. This was do-able. So I unhooked the safety chains, disconnected the electrical wiring, and began to crank up the trailer jack. I cranked and cranked. But the darn coupler wouldn’t pop off the ball-hitch. I know! I’ll do what Bill does, when he can’t get the coupler to sink completely onto the ball. I’ll start-stop the truck really fast. That ought to pop it off!
I perched on the edge of the driver’s seat, door open, and hit gas then brake really fast. BAM! Off popped the trailer! And away it bounced, rolling toward the edge of the parking lot. Which had a 40-foot cliff-like drop into the forest. I jumped out of the truck to catch it! I jumped out of the MOVING TRUCK THAT WAS STILL IN DRIVE AND WAS HEADED IN THE OTHER DIRECTION TOWARD A 40-FOOT DROP.
Flapping my arms like a chicken, running from truck to trailer to truck in my flip-flops, I chose to save the truck. I caught up with it, jumped in, and slammed the brakes. Crying and shaking, I looked back toward our trailer, just in time to see it crash into someone else’s trailer. To see someone else’s trailer jump its chocks and disappear into the tangled nighttime wilderness below.
Our trailer settled itself against the less-fortunate trailer’s chocks, like nothing had ever happened.
What was I going to tell Bill? Did I even have to tell Bill? Could I keep this a secret for the rest of my life? I thought so. So I calmed myself and drove to our boat slip, all the while making promises to the gods about what a good person I was going to be from now on, amen.
A smiling Bill climbed into the truck and asked how it went. “Fine.” No problems? Good! I knew you could do it. Let’s get this gear unloaded and fix a drink and start the grill.
Stay tuned for Part Two, in which I confess.
ginnygram 