JUNE 13, 2025 – (Cont.) On the occasion of Byron and Mylène’s wedding extravaganza at the Red Cabin in the year prior to Covid, I fixed up the Capri to entertain a host of guests from overseas who were staying with us before and after the Big Day. My favorite crew members were the Portuguese mariners—our daughter-in-law’s father, brother, and cousin—who collectively were the life of the proverbial party, be it land-based or on the water. (For the record, our daughter-in-law’s even-keeled mother is neither a mariner nor a consumer of Super Bock—the beer brand with nearly 100% of the market in Portugal—but as ever, kept a close eye on her sea-faring family as long as they were . . . in sight.) The Super Bock Mariners, were a lively crew, bringing aboard vivacious home-country music along with local Wisconsin brew. My companions, habitually good-natured and rendered additionally ebullient by song and sauce, called me Vasco de Gama, to which I responded with suitable flare. When sailing by the south end of the Big Island, I informed the crew that we were in fact rounding the Cape of Good Hope. They cheered and raised their brewskis in yet another toast to “Vasco de Gama.” With one hand on the tiller and the other adjusting the jib sheet, I nodded in happy acknowledgment.
Within a few months after the largest celebration ever (including industrial gauge fireworks launched from a raft specially constructed by Byron’s older brother) along our usually subdued and secluded shore . . . the Covid pandemic circled the globe. Initially, orders were issued forbidding travel from our home in Minnesota to the inland sea of Grindstone Lake. In time, of course, this prohibition was abandoned by all concerned. We weren’t the only people who viewed their second home as the primary one.
On the other hand, my spouse’s interest in living in such seclusion began to fade. I understood, but at the same time, in the context of the pandemic, I joked to myself, “Why are we spending so much money on a place when we could not be using the dough not to travel?” In the run-up to Christmas 2020, I changed this joke into a whimsical reality: “Given how much money we’re already spending on a lake place, why not blow some more . . . on a boat?” In light of the Bayliner experience and both the “second happiest day” and “happiest day” in my life behind me, the decision to revel in another “second happiest day” seemed counter-intuitive, or at least, contrary to rationality. But unless you’re a professional fisherperson, owning a boat is not altogether rational.
Beth had enjoyed rides aboard pontoons of friends and “Uncle Fun” (her brother) on the lake. I had too. The astonishing proliferation of pontoons in favor of all other types of watercraft on Grindstone was, well, not so astonishing. They’re wonderful for cruising around, particularly with friends, food and beverages. They provide relaxing and spacious accommodations, freedom of movement, and have all the accoutrements of a well-outfitted patio, except you can change the scenery constantly. Pontoons also serve as ideal platforms for watching sunsets, moonrises and stargazing. In fact, by starting at the west end of the lake and moving eastward, one can experience multiple sunsets in a single 15-minute period. With a bit of patience, pontoon travelers can catch far more falling stars than is possible from the end of the dock.
Based on solidly rational considerations, I scouted around for a used pontoon and found the perfect fit—and not a million miles away but at a local and reputable outfit, Hayward Marine—a 20-foot 2000 Bennington with a perfectly serviceable 40-HP Mercury motor, lots of hours but very well-maintained.
The lift proved to be the far more challenging—and expensive proposition. In disbelief I discovered how rare a suitable pontoon lift was within a reasonable radius of the lake. Ultimately, I found myself at the opposite end of the spectrum of thrift and wound up-sold on a brand new solar powered lift costing more than the boat. The salesperson told me, “You’ll never forget buying one of these,” she said. I ignored her representation initially but remembered it later—and still do every single time I press the little button and the lift bunks go up and down as if by magic. Unlike the Bayliner lift (also acquired new), there’s no manual cranking involved and as distinguished from standard electric lifts, there’s no need to rely on a 1,000’ extension cord for power. Instead, our fancy dandy lift relies on solar rays traveling 93 million miles but at the speed of light . . . wink, wink.
Of course, the downside to all of this is that instead of using “advanced engineering techniques” to put the boat and lift in the water each spring and to yank them out each fall, I pay someone else—through both nostrils. But then again, I’m not going on expensive overseas trips much anymore, so on a net-net basis, I’m sure I’m way ahead of the money-out-the-door-game.
The pontoon was a Christmas gift to Beth (the lift, I decided, was a Christmas present for me). As tradition would have it, she as “owner” has naming rights, but in my own little mind, the boat is named, Northern Comfort, as in Southern Comfort, which would be a customary drink associated with a watercraft designed for pure, lackadaisical pleasure. For some reason, Beth didn’t warm to the name (perhaps because nothing “Northern” denotes warmth), but she has yet to propose an alternative. In conversations with myself, I still insist on calling the boat Northern Comfort, but I freely acknowledge that there’s no easy, visible space on the transom (to the extent a pontoon has one) on which to place that name or any other. (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
