Cottage - Issue 4

The Cottage Next Door - Issue 4

The Cottage Next Door                                       Issue 4

Requiem for a jet ski                                               By Charles R. Ratliff

I was falling behind schedule this summer and Biz picked up on it right away.

“Are you going to put the yellow Jet Ski in today?” she asked, the day after we returned from our vacation to Arizona.

 “Can I put it in tomorrow?” I asked.

Biz looked at me skeptically, as though another week would pass before the yellow Jet Ski would make it into the lake, it being the Fourth of July weekend and all.

“You promise to take care of it tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes, I definitely will,” I promised, a smile creasing my face.

Two months into the summer and I have yet to put the yellow Jet Ski into the lake. It rested in my garage at Yellow House during the winter, and I procrastinated putting it into the water because we have to put so much effort into getting it ready.

I thought about selling the yellow Yamaha WaveBlaster II the other day. We have a newer, faster, matched pair of Kawasaki Jet Skis that we enjoy riding and that give us so much pleasure playing on the lake, why bother with the Yamaha?

Besides, who would want to ride that dinky little Yamaha anyway?

Me, that’s who.

As soon as I raised the garage door and took one look at the Yamaha WaveBlaster II, and saw that it was covered in garage gunk from being in storage for a year, I changed my mind in a heartbeat. I felt sorry for the little thing.

I could never part with the Yamaha; I wanted it in the water right that minute.

We cleaned it off, lifted it onto the trailer, and cranked it up into place. We hauled it down to Dad’s garage where I set about getting it ready for the water. As we worked to hook up the battery and replace the spark plugs, I thought about all that we had gone through with that one Jet Ski.

This summer will be the tenth summer we have launched the Jet Ski we affectionately call “The Drug Sled.” This is the eighth summer it has called Bass Lake home. As I look out from my cottage I see all the boats and Jet Skis, right in a line between our piers, just as they should be and as they always have been these past eight summers.

It hasn’t always been like this.

Biz and I first bought the Yamaha in 2001, right after we moved to Bullhead City. A friend needed to sell it, and I agreed to try it out, on the Colorado River, so we met down at the city park public access.

I had ridden personal watercraft a total of three times prior, mostly on Claude Eric’s Kawasaki, and on a stable lake in northeastern Arizona.

The Colorado River moved – fast – and my friend told me so.

“If you fall off, try to fall off downriver!” he said, over the roar of the boats and PWCs already on the river that day.

“Why is that?” I asked, starting to worry.

“Then you won’t have to swim so hard to catch up to it,” he replied.

I buckled my vest and climbed aboard, my nerves shaking so hard I almost couldn’t keep my hands steady. He showed me where to connect the lanyard, how to start the Blaster, and reminded me to learn my balance – quickly.

I pulled out into the current of the river and ran with the force of the river downstream, which seemed to me to be an easier way to become familiar with the river, until, that is, I had to turn to come back upstream.

As I turned, I lost my balance and the Blaster pitched me headlong into the stream. Luckily, I fell upstream of the PWC and was able to get to the boat quickly by treading water and letting the boat come to me. As I grabbed and held onto the rear of the PWC, I tried to remember what my friend had said about getting back aboard the thing.

“Don’t go over the side,” he had said, “It’ll tip over on you.”

I had forgotten his advice as I tried to go over the side anyway. It did tip on me, pitching me backward into the water. I flailed my arms, drawing laughs and quirky looks from boaters as they sped past me, rooster-tail spray dousing me in the process.

I managed to get aboard, start the machine, and head back upriver toward the park. As I passed the dock, I saw my friend waving to me. I waved back . . .

. . . And found myself once again swimming for dear life. This time I was downriver and saw the PWC floating away from me. I had to swim hard with the current to get to it. I started to panic. I reached out with my fingers and barely grabbed the plastic edge, in time to pull myself to the boat’s stern platform and hang on, catching my breath.

I mounted again, started it up, and turned back toward the dock, the current pitching me one more time, into the water, but by this time I was becoming an expert at swimming and playing catch-up. I managed to steer the boat through the current, back to the dock. As I pulled up, and my friend caught hold of the boat, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”

As I spat river water still trickling down from my soaked hair and over my face, I sputtered, “I’ll . . . take . . . it!”

We bought the boat that day and made a home for it on our driveway.

For two years we enjoyed riding the river, taking turns. The Yamaha WaveBlaster II is a little two-seater, a little tipsy when your balance was iffy, and when you topped off the gas tank, the nose likes to ride deeper in the water, which meant you had to shift your weight back on the seat.

We started taking Colton on the water and teaching him how to ride on the PWC with us. Usually Bizzy took him out for rides, putting him on the seat in front of her. He would grip the handlebars and hold on while he and Bizzy performed doughnuts in the river. He learned how to ride a Jet Ski while piggybacking on our Yamaha.

For two years we enjoyed that little Jet Ski; we’d go out on the river, ride for an hour or so, and then load it back on its makeshift, homemade trailer. We would drive the half-mile back to our house and park the trailer on our driveway. We’d hook up a cable lock through the axle and go back to the regular routine of everyday life.

After the second summer of owning that PWC, we returned to work as the school year got underway. Bullhead City was warm enough that we could still hit the river well into September and October. One day, as I came home from school, I parked on the driveway and headed for the front door. A nagging suspicion that something wasn’t right piqued my curiosity and I turned to look at the driveway.

My Yamaha WaveBlaster II was gone! It had been stolen right off my driveway! The cable lock had been cut, and someone had hooked up to the trailer and off they went. We called the police, filed a report, and submitted a claim to our insurance company.

The next year we purchased two other PWC’s – a Polaris three-seater, and an older Kawasaki Jet Ski. The next two summers, we again launched from the city park and played on the river. We took them down and rode on Lake Havasu, with Claude and Kasey. We continued to teach Colton how to ride, and he was becoming quite the little expert.

For two years, I kept searching for the Yamaha. Even though I felt it was long gone, I would always see a yellow PWC and double check to make sure it wasn’t mine. There weren’t many yellow and purple Yamaha WaveBlaster II’s, but when one came along, we tried to verify that it wasn’t ours.

By 2006, a little more than two years after the Yamaha was stolen, we were making plans to relocate to Indiana. Just after a Spring Break trip to Bass Lake, the temperatures were warming up and we were making ready to have a barbecue. Mom and Dad, who lived next door, were going to join us; Dad was still on the mend from a recent heart surgery.

I had to run to the store, and as I was driving back I took a wrong turn into the neighborhood next to ours.

I drove around one corner, then took the next and realized my mistake. I looked around to get my bearings – and came to a dead halt. I stared at a grimy, pinkish-brown stucco house. Parked on the dirt yard next to the side of the house was a yellow and purple Yamaha WaveBlaster II, sitting on a homemade, makeshift trailer. A tire was flat, and the numbers had been peeled off, but I recognized that little PWC. My heart did a triple flip as joy surged through me. I quickly scribbled the address down on a scrap piece of paper.

I did a fast U-turn, headed back out the way I came, and sped home. As I pulled into the drive, I leapt out of my car, pulled out the propane tank, and rushed into the house. Biz and Mom were having a conversation in the kitchen as I raced to the office.

“Did you get the propane tank?” Biz asked as I rifled the desk looking for the white binder in which we kept our important papers.

“Yes, but . . .” I replied.

She didn’t let me finish. “Did you hook it up?”

“No, but . . .”

“What’s the matter?” she finally asked.

I held up the ownership registration card and the police and insurance reports.

“I found the Blaster!” I exclaimed.

“You did? Where?”

After explaining, I picked up the phone. I dialed the Bullhead City Police Department’s main line, and was connected with an officer who would hear my complaint. I explained the situation, gave the officer my report number, which they then pulled up on a computer, and I gave them the address where my Jet Ski could be found.

Then I waited.

I didn’t have to wait long. Forty-five minutes later, a tow-truck deposited my trailer and PWC on the driveway. A police officer arrived and explained the situation; he said that the couple at the house was watching it for a friend. He asked how I knew it was mine. I pointed at the trailer, in its decrepit condition.

“That’s a homemade trailer,” I said. “I bought it when I bought the PWC. There’s no other trailer like it.” I smiled big as I pointed out the flat tire, and the missing lights and license plate. We pulled the seat on the Yamaha and discovered the engine in pristine condition.

“Why didn’t they ever use it?” I wondered aloud.

The police officer said the PWC served a different purpose other than what it was originally intended. “These things are high dollar items. It’s obvious why it was stolen.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Someone took it, traded it for drugs,” the officer stated, matter-of-factly. “Then that person traded it for drugs, and so on, until it was parked next to that house you saw. It probably changed hands several times, mostly for drugs. It was nothing more than a drug sled.”

So, we affectionately call the Yamaha the “drug sled,” as we repaired the trailer, drained and cleaned the gas tank, and replaced the boat identification numbers. I re-registered the boat, and had Dad tow it back to Indiana two months later. To this day, the yellow and purple PWC makes its home in Bass Lake. So far, I’ve only re-upholstered the seat and replaced the battery a couple of times. We keep it cleaned and well-maintained.

I started the Yamaha, while Dad looked on. He shook his head in awe and wonder.

“That little stinker still fires up after all these years,” he said.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

As Dad sat by the lake, he watched as we launched the Yamaha from the Marina across the lake, Bizzy riding while I towed the trailer back to the house. With a fresh tank of gas, Bizzy tore off across the lake, the rooster tail of water spraying high behind her. Later, he mentioned how nice it looked zig-zagging across the water.

I just can’t bring myself to get rid of the Yamaha. Next year, I’ll have to make sure it gets into the water sooner, so we can enjoy it that much more.