I am rarely accused of being intelligent. In fact friends usually point to my 114 year old wooden boat as absolute proof of my mental short comming. As further evidence they feel a nod in the direction of my dingy is more than sufficient. I like that dingy. It is strong, stable, and happily carries 6 full size adults; each well loaded with internal liquid ballast. So why do my friends smirk when they look upon her graceful lines? I’ll tell you why. Because my dinghy has no motor.

Shame of shames! My lovely tender is a sailing dingy. She glides gracefully through the water under the power of the wind alone. When the wind fails, out come her long sweeps and she is easily driven along under pure man (or woman) power. Little does it help my tainted image to remind the neighbors that rowing is a fantastic antidote to the hops based abdominal protrusion haunting every cruising anchorage and marina on earth. They just mutter about heart attacks and heat strokes. What they really fear is a loss of prestige.

Sadly, we cruisers have degenerated into snobbish prestige seekers. Status is no longer established by the size of ones boat, whose mast is longest, or whose bilge pump can eject a stream of water the furthest. Status is now directly proportional to the size of ones outboard motor.

Notice how the new semi ridged inflatables with their massive outboards always seem to be closest to the bar? Then come the new inflatables with more modest engines, and finally we find the older inflatables and hard dinghies, some with motors, others - even further along the line - with only oars. If short pieces of aluminum pole with plastic bits on the end, or two pieces of wood nailed together, can be called oars.

 Mind you, I have nothing against outboards, or inflatables for that matter. Inflatables are a blessing for smaller boats and outboards are fantastic for getting lines onto a pier, carrying out kedge anchors, and pushing the bow around a corner at the marina - usually when some million dollar plastic monster is directly in your path, and the engine dies.

That brings me to why I love my little dinghy. I can get it started, and it always starts first time. Perhaps the importance of this minor detail can be traced to having always owned outboard motors that refused to start. Others say I always wanted a bright orange potty.

I’m not exactly sure when or where the gods of outboard motors and I parted ways. Perhaps I’m just one of those poor souls that attract their wrath. You know, the way some people seem to attract lightning? I have only to purchase the best running outboard in the marina to have it suddenly, as if by magic, become the most reticent starter afloat.

Recently domestic pressures drove me to purchase an outboard motor. This time I was determined not to buy another clunker. I watched the other dinghies on the anchorage. Careful to note which were starters and which showed the slightest signs of awkward reticence. Like a clandestine operative my binoculars constantly scanned the moorings. I gathered my intelligence with care and charted the each motors reaction to various situations.

The neighbors thought I was suffering from some bizarre form of paranoia. Yet it is important that the motor being observed remain unaware that it is under observation least it try to present an artificial image of its actual attitude towards work.

You may laugh, but I know from hard personal experience that outboard motors are devious monsters masquerading under the guise of servile effort saving objects. My theory was proven when I zeroed in on a little seagull motor that never, I repeat never, seemed to give its owner the slightest twinge of a problem.

After long negotiations, a river of liquid incentive, and an embarrassing price paid on the bar top, I became the owner of that subservient little motor. It seemed my long chain of rotten luck had finally ended as it effortlessly powered me towards the tall masts of my home. The sunset was spectacular, the tropical breeze warm and refreshing; life was putting along beautifully.

This attitude on the part of my new motor lasted exactly long enough for me to begin trusting the little demon. First to go were the mast, sails, and rudder. Then “emergency paddles” replaced those lovely long sweeps. Who needed those bulky items spoiling the nice clean lines of my tender as she slid through the water, a grinning skipper on the handle of her motor. Such pleasure. Such Joy to pull the cord and have my motor burst into effortless power. I should have known this state of affairs would never last.

The gods choose a Sunday, regatta day of coarse, to strike. It was the day friends came to visit and I happily suggested we take the dinghy for a day of snorkeling and a picnic. It was one of those days that remind you why you gave up the office and went cruising. That is until we all pilled aboard, well tempered with various forms of liquid ballast, for the ride out to the island.

Half way across the bay the motor sputtered and coughed then died. Oh well, must need some tinkering I thought. Of coarse being the skipper I always take the starting duties. It’s a question of manly image and all that. As I pulled and pulled that blankie blank starter cord I foully reflected on the adverse effect of such traditions. Oh, it would sputter and sput, cough and fume, but would it actually run? Fat chance of that. It wasn’t long before I relented and out came the little emergency oars. They lasted roughly 2 minutes before bending into useless contortions of little use to man or fish.

Now, being aboard a drifting dingy in the midst of a regatta isn’t exactly the most popular of positions. My lovely sweeps, carefully tied on the deck along side the mast and sail, were now about as useful as fuel still in the marina tanks or wind somewhere else. Red with embarrassment I finally accepted a tow.  Oh, and did I mention that the gods of outboard motors have a way of twisting the dagger? Our tow came from a grinning 11 year old, in a sailing dingy of coarse. And yes, as usual, the entire sailing committee was present as we dropped off the towline and drifted up to the dock. Little wonder my dingy once again has sails and long sweeps, it’s actually a matter of pride.