MAY 15, 2021 – My “first world problem” the day before yesterday was a new lift that wouldn’t accommodate our new boat. Mid-morning yesterday, I called the outfit where I’d purchased the lift. Someone needed to examine the situation and create a solution. No one answered, so I left a message. An hour later, a barge with a crew of three from “the outfit” approach our shore—giving new meaning to “returning my call.”
I ran onto our dock and hailed them. They waved in return as their heavy-duty vessel—equipped with a 300-horse Yamaha outboard—cut its way through the chop. They eyed the problem—our boat stuck fast on the lift—and told me to try to power off the lift as two wader-clad crew jumped into the cold water to push. After considerable effort we dislodged the boat.
“Take a spin,” said the man in charge, “while we remove the [foot] pads from the posts.” From a safe distance, I watched the guy at the controls extend gigantic steel arms to lift . . . the lift. Two guys in the water then made swift work of removing pins, legs and footpads from the four aluminum posts. By removing the non-essential pads, we hoped to gain enough depth to float the boat onto the lift bunks.
In short order, the task was completed, and I was signaled to land the boat. I navigated nervously toward the lift. No worries—I was lucky. I gave the engine a little extra thrust, then shifted to neutral and floated in—a bull’s eye . . . thud. To everyone’s surprise, despite our having removed the footpads, the lift bunks still weren’t low enough.
We put our heads together and discussed the practical physics blocking an easy solution. Without a fix, I suggested Plan B: haul the lift down the shoreline to the dock below our old family cabin. The water there is several inches deeper, and thus, relocation of the lift seemed to be the best alternative to no solution.
The three guys agreed. I peeled away on the pontoon, and they picked up the lift and powered down to “Plan B dock.” In quick order they placed the lift where I’d directed and gave me the all-clear. By now the wind was up, creating more chop. I brought our boat in, closer, closer, then shouted over wind and waves, “The moment of truth!”
She floated right in over the submerged bunks, and standing on the dock, one of the guys flipped the solar-powered side switch to raise the bars, the bunks, and . . . our boat, without any problem. Plan B was now officially, Plan A.
Whenever we want to use the boat, we—or rather, I—must chase through the woods from the Red Cabin to the dock at Björnholm and motor back to the Red Cabin dock to take on passengers . . . food and beverages. Alternatively, I’ll entice guests to take a nice nature hike on their way to a cruise. Either way, we’ll soon be aboard . . . HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
