Anybody who knows my dad, knows he is a menace behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. He’d likely take offense at that, citing his excellent driving record. No argument there. He doesn’t hit much. It’s the years he shaves off people’s lives that make him dangerous.
When we were kids, we would go up to Clear Lake a lot. I can still remember my mother sucking in her breath with a whistling sound, like the last breath she would ever take. She would slam her foot on the floorboards of the passenger side of the car, instinctively reaching for a brake pedal that was not there, as my dad passed “that damn camper” that was keeping him from “making good time”. We would have the whole family in the car, including a cat, a turtle and a bird. The cat invariably got carsick and would alternately puke and use the litter box. Dad would waggle his hand at Mom and tell her to “Relax, and enjoy the view.” OK, but when the view is distorted by speed, it’s not very soothing.
Surprisingly, those are fond memories. Hey, don’t judge! When you come from a family of kooks, you’re bound to be one yourself.
“Making good time” is very important when driving. The drive itself is not to be enjoyed; it’s a race against the clock. The destination is irrelevant. Several years back we all took a day trip to the giant redwoods of the Northern California coast in my parents’ minivan. When we reached the state park, there was a numbered driving tour, with regular stops about a quarter mile apart. You could get out of your vehicle and read the posted historical information, and I suppose observe whatever the sign talked about. I wouldn’t know. We didn’t stop at any. My mother and I kept an eye out for the first sign, and had not finished saying “There it is!”, before we were past it. In a flash we had shouted “There’s another one!”, but that was gone in a blur, also.
Apparently the ranger station was the destination, because that was when we found a place to eat our picnic lunch. We took a couple of pictures, and then it was time to head back the way we came, so we could make good time going home. Well, the rest of us put up a fuss, we went a different direction, my son got carsick, I’m pretty sure we hit a rabbit in the dark on a winding road, and we made terrible time.
But the pièce-de-résistance is the speed boat. After a disappointing experience as a sailboat captain, my dad bought a speed boat, hoping that would be more appealing to the family than the sailboat (which is its own story). He judged rightly. My sister, brother-in-law and I liked to water ski, so we were very enthusiastic. We have many happy memories getting sunburned on the lake in that boat.
But of course, my dad was always the driver. He can control a boat very well, actually. The problem for us passengers was where he liked to drive. Like, away from the calm shore and straight into the middle of the lake, where there are nice big waves. That’s uncomfortable as a passenger, but if you are being towed behind the boat with boards on your feet, well, even the life vest isn’t much comfort. I can remember thinking “Where the hell is he going?” and frantically pointing back toward the shoreline, all the while bending my knees and preparing for each wave, while the sound of my skis striking the downside of each swell assaulted my ears. Your skis are supposed to make a pleasing swishing sound as you cut through smooth water, not a harsh “Smack!” as you navigate swells. Water skiing doesn’t traditionally include moguls.
The depth of my father’s driving mania became clear on the lake. One weekend, I invited a friend to come up with me and enjoy some sun and boating. As we lounged in the sun in the cushioned bow of the boat, once again our demented captain started heading into dangerous waters, literally. You see, the bow of a speedboat is not a good place to be in rough water unless you are strapped in, and unfortunately, seat belts are not standard equipment on recreational boats. As the front of the boat started to rise and fall abruptly, we hung onto the mooring hooks and braced for each impact. It wasn’t safe to stand up and move back, either, so we just hung on. We were young and stupid, and we just laughed, but it was uncomfortable to say the least. We looked forward to read the waves, but at one point my friend glanced back at my dad, and said to me in a low voice, “Look at your dad. He looks crazy!”
And there was Dad. He was bent low over the wheel, his head forward, eyes squinting, with this strange teeth baring grimace on his face. For all the world he looked as if he were trying to bump us out of the boat. In retrospect, I think he was actually having trouble seeing in the bright sun, but it was a classic moment, nonetheless.
Wait, there’s more. None of us will forget the time an argument ensued about how safely my dad was driving. I don’t remember if it was about tackling mid lake swells instead of hugging the shore, or how close he came to another boat, but the subject was about being cautious instead of overly aggressive. My sister said hotly “Well, you’re not God!”, to which my dad replied as he once again bent low over the wheel, “In this boat, I am God!”
Well, then, that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it? Dad’s omnipotent behind a wheel. OK, well at least we understand where we are with that.
Just the same, I think I’m gonna wear a seat belt and a life vest. You know, just in case God doesn’t know about this.