The Incurable Addiction Of Boating

By Author: terry Buddell
Total Articles: 24
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It's a known fact that boating magazines have been responsible for spreading strange afflictions to many unsuspecting NP's (normal people) many of whom started out in their blighted lives innocently glancing through the pages of one of those aforementioned ‘Mags' without realising the terrible dangers they were being exposed to.

These normal people (I was once one) are well known for their pitying sideways glances at the aqueously inclined subspecies known generally as ‘boaties, yachties' and sometimes worse, ‘grotty yachties'.

Many of these NP's frequent their local yacht clubs because the view over the water is wonderful, the chips are good and it's possible to hobnob with people so rich that they don't even own a boat. These elevated types are fawned and fondled over by the Commodore and are considered above questioning about such mundane exploits such as sailing, hoisting the yardarm and all that stuff. In fact, if a yachtie who could actually afford to keep his craft in such a place for a night or two, let alone the membership fees, dared to splash a dab of paint onto his Lucky Lady IV he'd ...
... run a real risk of being chucked out of the aforementioned establishment for lowering the tone of the joint.

However, I digress. It's very difficult in many cases to pinpoint exactly which event causes the cerebral flash that causes many a sane man to crossover into the murky world of sawdust, sheds, spiling and tantric sawing and it's said, in certain quarters, that it's not at all like getting chickenpox or mumps because they actually go away after a bit. It is actually like getting religion, you know, the soul becomes permanently contaminated forever.

It's a transformation, a ‘seeing of the light' and the victim once hooked, is totally unaware that for evermore he will alienate the wife, mother-in-law and kids, ruin every stitch of clothing with epoxy and paint, wear the strangest of shoes, forget to mow the lawn and the oddest symptom of all, he will almost never again possess tidy hair or clean knees again.

The victim AI (after infection) will take to the shed, rifle the rent jar, convert the life savings into wood and begin to smell of paint, wood glue and acetone. Steadily growing piles of BM's appear (boating mags) and the daily arrival of the postman will result in muffled chuckles of demented glee from the shed as he rips the wrapping off a new scarfing machine or a number 3 Stanley plane, now banned in many hardware shops (well, they must be, you can't find one for love nor money these days).

It's been statistically proven, in many cases wives and kids threaten to leave home and if they do, it's a bad thing because the house becomes ‘workshop two'. Turps bottles replace milk cartons, the hallway becomes a parking lot ideally shaped for that unfinished catamaran hull, the fridge becomes a store for mixed-up epoxy glue which in turn, makes the bacon smell and taste of styrene, (which, of course in many cases, is a vast improvement).

Now the family dog begins advanced self-training and learns how to take itself for walkies, turns gradually feral and gnaws off cuts of cedar wood instead of bones.

The victim now tries frantically to save ready cash to make the bi-annual pilgrimage to the Holiest of holy Mecca's, The Wooden Boat Show in Tasmania where he will mingle freely with other afflicted souls (well, at least the Government know where they all are at once, I suppose) Upon his return and surrounded by a holy glow, the shed will again echo to the whine of drill and the hypnotic drone of sander deep into the night. So deeply smitten, our man will by now no longer be able to know the difference between a few seconds and several hours, cups of tea will grow cold, old and mouldy and gradually be swallowed by the all invading sawdust.

The actual object of his attentions takes various forms. It may, to all intents and purposes, look like a perfectly ordinary kayak, a harmless skiff or a pleasant rowing boat but don't be fooled for an instant. The Devil takes many forms and temptation is never far from the afflicted. You'd think, wouldn't you, that once the fellow had purged these primeval urges, he would repent, hoover the house, delouse and retrain the dog, dispose of the empty stubbies and fall on his knees and beg the wife to return to a life of neat lawns and crisply ironed shirts.

But it is, I'm led to believe, a matter of record that once caught, this dreadful disease ruins the brain and is etched forever into the psyche that controls all human will and like smack cocaine, chocolate, rum and sex, once tasted, will never leave the victim in peace. Despite all promises to the contrary, he will return to his old habits and stroke timber planks and drool unknowingly over the freely available porn of boating magazines that lie in wait for yet more victims on the shelves of every newsagent in the land.

Footnote one:
It is a confirmed scientific fact that male persons are much more likely to become infected than the female gender, but in one well known documented case, a decent lady turned into a yachty, gathered other females about her, got a boat and damned well sailed right round the world.

Footnote two:
A well known publisher of such material who shall remain nameless but is known in the trade as Pusher (P.L.) when interviewed about his interests in these magazines, declined to comment except for one sentence only and I quote: Whatever floats yer boat, mate!

You can read more articles like these on http://www.ezine.com and on the author's website http://www.dolphinboatplans.com

If you would like Terry to write an article for your magazine contact Terry on http://www.dolphinboatplans.com