JUNE 11, 2025 – (Cont.) With the family’s collective directive in hand (“rent a boat that we can use to water ski and tube behind and that’s comfortable to ride in”), I drove to M & M Rentals to make arrangements. They offered exactly what I figured would please the family—a 16-foot Bayliner runabout with a 115-horse Mercruiser outboard motor plus tow ropes and two sets of water skis tossed in. After completing the necessary paperwork, the proprietor handed me the keys and asked, “What lake ya on?”
“Grindstone,” I said.
“Oh boy. Lots of rocks. You gotta be careful on that lake. The boat’s got a depth finder, so use it, but it would also help to have a map showing depth lines.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “I’ve been on the lake my whole life, and believe me, I’m well acquainted with the treacherous spots. I’ve made contact with many of them. Lessons learned.”
“Fine,” said Mr. M & M. “Just sayin’.”
Realizing that my response had sounded cavalier, I acknowledged the validity of his concern and reassured him the best I could that I’d be appropriately cautious.
Off I drove with the boat-on-trailer behind me. With the help of Beth’s nephew-in-law Rob, I launched the boat at the landing in Williams Bay and motored to our cabin where our family and guests were eagerly waiting. Rob drove the car back.
For the next 90 minutes I sat at the helm and alternated between giving people rides and towing water skiers and tubers. All went well and a fun time was being had by all. I then decided to take a short break.
At this point, Rob asked if he could take the boat for a spin. He’d often skippered his father-in-law’s (“Uncle Fun”) deckboat battleship, and in furtherance of his request, he assured me that having grown up in Michigan, he “driven a lot of boats.” Besides, I knew, Rob was the consummate gearhead, so truthfully, he was probably more qualified than I to tool around in a boat powered by a 115-horse motor. On the other hand . . . Rob, I’d observed, had an impulsive streak, and that trait plus the 115-horse motor made me a little nervous.
I decided to compromise with myself. I’d chill, but I’d also issue an express warning to stay out of “THIS” corner of the lake. As I said these words—with full emphasis—and just to be safe, I gestured broadly with both arms westward to a generously designated part of the lake close to our dock area and including that infamous boulder.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rob said dismissively, as he climbed into the boat.
If I needed a break, Byron and his friend Kumar, both barely 10 years old, couldn’t get enough of the big tube. They wriggled onto the thing as Rob idled the engine in about two feet of water with the bow pointed where it should be—straight out toward open water, slightly southeast. I forget who the spotter was, and as I’m writing this, I’m hoping that there was one; the fact I can’t remember who it was scares me: perhaps because I was so nervous about Rob’s navigational skills, I wasn’t even thinking of the other essential safety concern—having a responsible person aboard as spotter.
In any event, from the end of the dock I watched as Rob shifted into gear and guided the boat in a crawl to straighten out the tow line—and into deeper water. So far, so good. Next came the usual exchange between the helmsperson and the towed: “Ready?” – “Yeah! Hit it!”
Rob pushed the throttle arm forward and the motor roared to life. Over the engine noise I could hear the hoots of delight from Byron and Kumar. But then inexplicably and to my sudden distress, Rob made a sharp turn toward the very section of the lake I’d said was off limits. “WTF” wasn’t yet in our collective lexicon, but the equivalent sprang to mind. I cupped both hands beside my mouth and yelled in a panic; jumped up and down on the dock; waved my arms like a crazy man . . . but nothing drew Rob’s attention as he headed deeper into the danger zone. Just in time (I thought), Byron and Kumar slid off the tube, and Rob cut back to idle just as he swung the boat around 180 degrees. I continued my shouts and gesticulations from the dock, but I might just as well have been silent and invisible.
When the boys stood up in the water, the waterline was below their waists. This was to be Rob’s final reminder that he was in the shallows and needed to tilt the motor nearly out of the water altogether or better yet, for crying out loud, he needed to hear me, cut the engine, climb out of the damn boat and walk it out to greater depth and head away from troubled waters.
He, Byron and Kumar remained deaf and blind to me. The boys got themselves back onto the tube, and to my great dismay, I heard, “Ready?’ –“Yeah! Hit it!”
The next frame of my memory’s video bears an indelible image. The instant Rob “hit it,” I heard the unmistakable sound of an outboard motor prop—shall we say, “entire lower unit”?—crunching against an immovable stone, and simultaneously, I saw the big Mercruiser lurch suddenly and unnaturally. Rob had hit the boulder, the monster of Grindstone Lake, full force.
With the engine still running, the boat limped back to the temporary mooring I’d rigged up near the dock. Given my definitive admonition, I was incensed that he had ignored it. But what could I say? His malfeasance was inexcusable, but on the other hand, he was otherwise a good guy and a member of the extended family. I held my tongue, except to ask Rob to tilt the motor all the way up so we could see how bad the damage was. In two words, it was . . . really bad. The skag (the fin below the prop) was missing altogether. The prop blades were completely mangled like the crumpled fists of a person victimized by some terrible neurological disease. The drive shaft was hidden from view, but I imagined it was badly bent, given the missing skag and state of the prop,
Rob felt bad and apologized spontaneously. Moreover, to his credit he was fully prepared to make amends. I accepted his contrition and suggested that the place to start was with a damage estimate. With “Uncle Fun’s” boat, we towed the disabled Bayliner back to the landing, where we loaded it onto the trailer for the trip to M & M.
No film director could have rivaled the scene that unfolded in front of the rental office. The proprietor who’d issued the warning to me a few hours before just happened to be standing on the asphalt drive as I pulled up. He couldn’t miss seeing the damage to the motor. The first words out of his mouth were straight out of the imaginary screenplay about reality: “Didn’t I tell you Grindstone Lake was dangerous?”
“It’s a bit of a story,” I told him sheepishly, as I alighted from the vehicle.
The repair estimate—involving replacement of the entire lower unit—came to $3,995. Or, Mr. M & M proposed, he’d have the lower unit replaced and sell us the whole works—boat, motor (essentially new, since the original engine was only a year old and would now have a brand new lower unit), and trailer, skis and rope tows, all for $7,500.
Rob and his wife paid us the $3,995.00, for which we expressed our sincere appreciation, and we wound up with a new-old Bayliner. Our sons were in complete favor of the deal for a “fast” boat. Beth liked the fact that we now had a “fun” boat. It took me a while, but I got used to the fact that I now owned a “power” boat. (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
