It'll be a miracle if I live through this summer. Regular readers of this column (both of you) may remember I was hit by a car a while back while riding my bicycle to pick up the mail. I survived that with a broken toe, some minor contusions, and a nearly fatal case of wounded ego. In another fate-tempter this summer, I took my life in my hands and rode my youngest son's quad, a small vehicle that goes from zero to warp 6 in about three seconds. I actually jumped the thing over a ramped-up hill, designed by the kid for just such a purpose, before bringing it slowly down below the speed of sound, parking it, and shakily crawling off to kiss the ground and thank my maker. The boy rides it all the time. I'm hoping for grandchildren from him someday, but at this rate the odds don't look good. Anyway, in the past couple months I've also nearly electrocuted myself while attempting to fix the front porch light, driven off the road and into a corn field during a foggy, 3 a.m. ride home from work, and capsized my row boat while trying to retrieve a dropped fishing rod. It's been a busy summer, even for me. But last Saturday night ... well ... all I can say is either the gods are trying to kill me and failing miserably, or my guardian angel is working overtime. Given my history, I'd say the former is more likely, but I'm willing to entertain other, more benign, theories. I was playing a gig with my little, weekend band, The Guinness Brothers, at Keenan Marina in Ferrysburg. The folks there are great, and the marina owner hosts a big party every year with awesome food, rum-based drinks, music and dancing. It's a fun event for all the "boat people," as well as for those of us in the band. Even the caterer has a good time. Most of party guests have boats parked in the marina, some of them of the ostentatious, "eat this, Donald Trump!" variety. But despite the fact they have too much money, they seem to be for the most part friendly, down-to-earth folks who know how to enjoy and appreciate the things life has given them. I enjoy their company immensely and wish I had enough cash of my own to hang with them more often. The band had just about made it to the end of our second set, around 10 p.m., when the Ferrysburg Police arrived on the scene. Apparently, an elderly lady living on the other side of the lake was having a hard time hearing the dialogue of a "Matlock" rerun over the noise of the party and had phoned in a complaint. The Ferrysburg Police take this sort of heinous crime very seriously. They ordered the marina management to shut things down for the night. Now ordinarily, management obtains a noise permit, or whatever it is that keeps the cops off your back at a time like this, but this year they neglected to do so. So that was pretty much it for the party. The guests were surprisingly vocal in registering their opinions of the Ferrysburg Police - who were, after all, only doing what they're paid to do, and at any rate seemed far too young to have ever served in the SS during WWII - but these are wealthy boat owners, not dirty, filthy hippies, so there were no rubber bullets fired or tear gas canisters lobbed. As part of the hired help, I was perfectly content with the prospect of calling it a night, packing up, and getting home before 4 a.m. for a change. Still, it was only 10 p.m., so when I was invited to grab a quick drink at the outdoor "tiki lounge" on the other side of the marina's parking lot, I figured what the heck. There were a couple musicians over there with acoustic guitars playing Jimmy Buffet music; it sounded like fun. My band-mates and I finished packing up the trailer, did one last "idiot check" of the stage area to make sure we hadn't left anything behind, then headed across the lot. About halfway there, I decided I'd better leave my wallet, iPod and cell phone locked in my truck. I was wearing the black suit I usually wear to gigs and all that stuff jammed into the pockets makes me look like a Bolivian drug mule trying to sneak past immigration. The guys went on ahead of me. After locking up the truck, I headed back across the pitch-black parking lot and toward the inviting amber glow of the tiki bar. Now, I don't know why there are not more (or any) lights in this parking lot, but there aren't. Not a one. It's a murky expanse of asphalt the size of a football field and once the sun sets, the darkness becomes absolute, especially on a moonless night, as this one was. Starlight glimmered faintly off the orderly rows of BMW, Mercedes and Lexus sedans parked there, giving me just enough light to see by, barely. In my lightless surroundings, the stars shined brightly overhead. Gazing up, I could make out the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the elliptical curve of the Milky Way. The gentle breeze blowing in off the lake felt fine. The heels of my best cowboy boots tapped out their rhythmic tattoo as I strolled across the macadam. God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world. You'd think by now I would know a "gotcha" moment when I was walking into one, but apparently not. I put my left foot down. Click. I put my right foot down. Click. I put my left foot down. Nothing. No click. No tap. No ground. There are people familiar with the setup of a marina, I'm sure, but I'm not one of them. Or rather, I wasn't before now. Every marina has a slip cut into it, one designed to take the "eat this Donald Trump" boats out of the water at the end of the season. It's a BIG slip, to accommodate the BIG boats. Vertical steel walls reaching 10 or 15 feet out of the lake, as long as the biggest boat and as wide. And for some reason, completely unmarked, unlighted and unattended. I dropped like a stone into this one. If time had permitted, I'm sure I would have panicked, cried like a baby, made deals with God and the devil, and seen my life pass before my eyes. But before I could do any of that, I was inhaling copious portions of Lake Michigan and trying to figure out which way "up" was. Due in no small part to my striking resemblance to a manatee, I'm an excellent swimmer, even while wearing a black suit and cowboy boots. My only light was a small rectangle of stars directly overhead, but it didn't take me long to figure out what had happened and where I was. I managed to swim out into the marina, where I was spotted by a group of party guests on their way to the tiki bar. Suddenly, the water was alive with flashlight beams and the voices of people instructing me to not panic. For some reason (probably the same reason the damn thing isn't lighted!) there are no ladders leading from the water to the top of the slip. The nearest one, I was told, was about a half-mile down the marina. Between my current position and there, nothing but sheer, steel walls. One of the more clear-thinking guests suggested I swim out to her boat, which was moored only 20 or 30 yards from shore. I got there no problem and she pulled me aboard, gave me a towel and even let me borrow one of her husband's shirts (a very nice silk Hawaiian job with a floral print). She also offered me dry pants, but I just cannot bring myself to wear another man's trousers. So, with soaked slacks and cowboy boots containing about two gallons of water each - but sporting a dry shirt - I made my way to the tiki bar, shared a drink and a few good-natured jibes over my choice of swimming attire, then headed on home. I did remember to return the shirt first. In the morning, I related the story of my adventure to The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. "Why does this sort of thing always seem to happen to you?" she asked. That's easy. It's not because I'm careless, or because I'm a klutz (as Mrs. T suggested, rather cruelly, I thought). It's because the gods are out to get me. Do you have a comment, question or black suit and cowboy boots (size 11) you'd like to donate to Mike Taylor? Send it to: mtaylor@midmich.net, or via snail mail to Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Want more? Archived "Reality Check" columns may be found online at http://mtrealitycheck.typepad.com/ |