MAY 13, 2024 – (Cont.) Although I know the basic rules of chess, I’m no chess player, and on the few occasions when I’ve humored an actual chess player among extended family members, my lack of skill has become evident within my first three moves. Yet I have an immense appreciation for chess, which, as far as I can tell, is a matter of playing out moves—your own and your opponent’s—far beyond the one at hand.
So it is with assembling my dock-as-engineering-marvel, compounded this time around by the three additional factors I mentioned in yesterday’s post—transporting tools and materials; matching up the dock with the boat lift, not the other way around; and conquering the steep 10-foot embankment above the water’s edge. Over the weekend I found myself approaching the dock project as I assumed serious chess players analyze a chess board: that is, I broke things down between tactical and strategic objectives, then played out moves a dozen steps ahead.
For example, on the tactical side I contrasted the likely effort of (a) donning insulated waders (no small feat) and towing several kayak loads of tools and materials to the job site; and (b) hauling everything along a woodland trail. I opted for “(a),” which proved to be the better choice. Strategically, after considerable analysis, I elected to install the dock first, then worry about negotiating access down the embankment. If I ran out of time, I could always tie a sturdy rope around the base of a tree and mimic a mountain climber descending and ascending The Eiger. But in all events I had to get the dock installed so I could reach the lift controls before the boat is delivered on Wednesday.
If I’m not much good at real chess, I was reminded how much I enjoy playing figurative chess—that is, problem solving in the context of applied physics.
But I was also aware of a far higher strategic concern: not injuring or killing myself. Working alone in near total seclusion, I couldn’t afford any measure of carelessness. Perhaps the leading risk is carrying a heavy bracketed pipe or 10-foot frame member and slipping on large smooth stones that cover the lake bed 12 feet or so out from shore. Lose your balance and twist the wrong way and your whole life can go sideways in a flash and for keeps. Even if you avoid knocking yourself out, if you fall down with waders on in water deeper than you can raise your chin for air when you’re on all fours, you could be a goner: once the waders fill up with water, it takes a Herculean effort to stand up or extricate yourself from them.
Before you push, pull or lift any heavy element, you have to bear in mind the laws of Newtonian physics—such rules as “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,” “What goes up must come down,” and “The critical tipping point is reached when the center of gravity passes outside of the support base.” These and affiliated laws of the universe are in constant play, and the dock assembler ignores them at his extreme peril—especially while wearing waders in a water depth of more than 18 inches and slip-sliding around on a thousand five- to 15-pound stones.
All of which considerations give understandable reason for friends to ask, “And why are you doing this yourself?” But in light of the dangers of driving a car, flying an airplane (let alone jumping out of one at 5,000 feet above the ground), salmon-fishing (while wearing waders) in Alaska bear country, mountain climbing in Nepal, downhill skiing in Colorado, or even casual x-c skiing on a local golf course[1], my friends might just as well ask, “Why take such risks? Yet each of these brings gratification to the risk-taker, just as I find rewards in practicing the laws of mechanical physics in the course of playing “dock chess.”
In any event, cognizant of the risks associated with the dock installation, I thought of Jimmy Webb, star of “Jimmy’s World” (a highly entertaining YouTube sponsored series about restoration of abandoned aircraft), whose favorite T-shirt bears the inscription, “What could possibly go wrong?” When I’m installing the dock all by myself, with no one to come to my aid or to call 9-1-1, I keep my head in that place at all times: “What could possibly go wrong?” I firmly believe that in any context, trouble can be vastly reduced by a combination of continuous alertness—paying attention—and active imagination, thinking constantly about “What could possibly go wrong?” not because things will but because if you can imagine how they could, you’ll be more apt to deflect or avoid serious damage.
This weekend I was particularly attuned to the enjoyment I derive from installing the dock. No doubt this heightened appreciation for the task was triggered by the three new challenges I faced. They in concert with my advancing age—I’ll hit the big 7-0 in August—inspired me to examine more closely the psychological effect that this annual project has on my psyche. The physical effort is in stark contrast to my professional work, which is all about applied language, not physics. Yet the two share the common and critical need for constant analysis and problem-solving—and bring the same satisfaction when a problem, large or small, is solved. Moreover, because this time around I struck a slower pace, not only to accommodate the new challenges but out of necessity, given my age, I was rewarded with two co-mingled discoveries that formed the centerpiece of the entire experience.
This revelation, as it were, arose from the most arduous aspect of the project: conquest of the embankment. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] In a post some months ago I mentioned a near catastrophic accident I had while gliding gently down a long shallow incline on the groomed x-c ski trail at nearby Como Park. While moving casually along, I decided to adjust the wrist strap on one of poles. To do so I’d unwisely pointed the tip of the pole forward straight ahead of me, barely off the snow. Unwittingly, I lowered it just enough for the tip to jam into the track between my ski tips. The other end of the pole struck me hard in the trachea, nearly knocking me out and punching a hole into my neck. (Talk about an equal and opposite reaction!) I was night skiing when few other skiers were out on the course. I realized that I could’ve been in serious trouble by way of a stupid, improbable accident during a very routine activity less than a mile from our home.
