OLD WOTSISNAME with the concrete boat had a question for me the other day.
“I notice you always refer to your dinghy oars as bridesmaids,” he said.
I had to plead guilty. “It’s just habit,” I said. “Don’t even know I’m doing it.”
“But why bridesmaids?” he insisted.
So I had to tell him the rather silly reason. When I was 14 I was the cabin boy aboard the Makoti, a twin-screw sportfisher that was based in Simonstown, south of Cape Town, for the summer.
Makoti’s dinghy was pulled up on the beach just in front of where I lived, and I used to row Makoti’s owner and guests out to the boat moored in the bay. The owner was Harry Pegram, a wine farmer from Constantia, and the very first time I mentioned oars he said, “No, no, not oars — bridesmaids.” And he roared with laughter.
Then he told the story of the Cockney mother and her little daughter who were out walking in London when they came across a wedding. The bridegroom was secretary of a posh Thames rowing club, and the members had formed with their oars a long ceremonial arch, through which the bride and her retinue of attendants were walking.
The excited little girl said to her mother: “Cor, Mum, look at all them oars.”
“Hush, luvvy,” said her mother quickly, “them’s not ’ores, them’s bridesmaids.”
That’s why my oars have been bridesmaids ever since.
Today’s Thought
You can be a little ungrammatical if you come from the right part of the country.
— Robert Frost
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #54
Size of dinghy. The rule for hard dinghies is that 7 feet overall is generally reckoned to be the smallest-sized hard dinghy that can be used as a yacht’s tender for two people.
Tailpiece
“Dad, I need a car.”
“What? You think cars grow on trees?”
“No, no, Dad. Everyone knows they come from automobile plants.”
Showing posts with label oars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oars. Show all posts
May 20, 2010
April 29, 2010
The thrift store oar war
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new column.)
I HAVE JUST said goodbye to my oars. They went with my dinghy, which went with my boat. I was very fond of my oars, even though they weren’t the oars I was supposed to have.
I found them 12 years ago in a thrift store in Oak Harbor, on Whidbey Island, a matched pair of 6-foot 6-inch wooden oars sticking up out of a barrel of assorted paddles and odd pieces of wood. They wanted $30 for the pair, or $15 apiece.
I, too, shifted into thrift mode and offered the lady $20 for the pair. She was greatly offended. “We don’t haggle over prices,” she said. “We are a non-profit. We work for charity.” Suitably chastened, I slunk away.
But that night the devil visited me in my sleep. “Why not buy just one oar?” he said. “That will destroy the value of the matched pair. Then the remaining one will be worth practically nothing. Nobody ever buys just one oar. They will have to drop its price to $5 to get rid of it.”
That cunning devil. What a splendid idea.
So I went back, paid $15 for one oar with a convincing show of doing my bit for the homeless, and settled back to wait.
It was winter and I could afford to wait. Every week I went back to check the lone thrift store oar. And every week the lady watched me check the price tag. It stayed at $15. She looked very smug. But time was on my side. I could wait.
Christmas would have been a charitable time for the lady to reduce the price but she didn’t take the opportunity, and we were still at stalemate halfway into spring when the unbelievable happened. Some idiot bought the oar. Some ignorant moronic fool paid the full $15 for MY oar, the remaining half of MY matched pair.
“The oar’s gone,” I said to the lady in shocked disbelief.
Her lips turned up at the corners. “Man bought it,” she said with just a hint of triumph. “Full price.”
I bit my tongue.
I was forced to buy another oar, an oar that didn’t match the one I had already bought, and I was forced to pay $15. So, after everything, I ended up paying the full $30 for a mismatched pair.
Oh, we got on well enough over the years, those oars and I. They rowed well enough for who it was for. But I never once set foot in my dinghy without seeing the smug face of the lady who made such a fool of me, the lady who won the thrift store oar war.
Today’s Thought
The true test of a brilliant theory is what first is thought to be wrong is later shown to be obvious.
— Assar Lindbeck
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #45
Wind-driven currents. A wind blowing steadily from one direction for 12 hours or more creates a surface current with a drift of about 2 percent of the wind’s average speed.
Tailpiece
The greatest area of unemployment in the world today is the region just north of the ear.
I HAVE JUST said goodbye to my oars. They went with my dinghy, which went with my boat. I was very fond of my oars, even though they weren’t the oars I was supposed to have.
I found them 12 years ago in a thrift store in Oak Harbor, on Whidbey Island, a matched pair of 6-foot 6-inch wooden oars sticking up out of a barrel of assorted paddles and odd pieces of wood. They wanted $30 for the pair, or $15 apiece.
I, too, shifted into thrift mode and offered the lady $20 for the pair. She was greatly offended. “We don’t haggle over prices,” she said. “We are a non-profit. We work for charity.” Suitably chastened, I slunk away.
But that night the devil visited me in my sleep. “Why not buy just one oar?” he said. “That will destroy the value of the matched pair. Then the remaining one will be worth practically nothing. Nobody ever buys just one oar. They will have to drop its price to $5 to get rid of it.”
That cunning devil. What a splendid idea.
So I went back, paid $15 for one oar with a convincing show of doing my bit for the homeless, and settled back to wait.
It was winter and I could afford to wait. Every week I went back to check the lone thrift store oar. And every week the lady watched me check the price tag. It stayed at $15. She looked very smug. But time was on my side. I could wait.
Christmas would have been a charitable time for the lady to reduce the price but she didn’t take the opportunity, and we were still at stalemate halfway into spring when the unbelievable happened. Some idiot bought the oar. Some ignorant moronic fool paid the full $15 for MY oar, the remaining half of MY matched pair.
“The oar’s gone,” I said to the lady in shocked disbelief.
Her lips turned up at the corners. “Man bought it,” she said with just a hint of triumph. “Full price.”
I bit my tongue.
I was forced to buy another oar, an oar that didn’t match the one I had already bought, and I was forced to pay $15. So, after everything, I ended up paying the full $30 for a mismatched pair.
Oh, we got on well enough over the years, those oars and I. They rowed well enough for who it was for. But I never once set foot in my dinghy without seeing the smug face of the lady who made such a fool of me, the lady who won the thrift store oar war.
Today’s Thought
The true test of a brilliant theory is what first is thought to be wrong is later shown to be obvious.
— Assar Lindbeck
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #45
Wind-driven currents. A wind blowing steadily from one direction for 12 hours or more creates a surface current with a drift of about 2 percent of the wind’s average speed.
Tailpiece
The greatest area of unemployment in the world today is the region just north of the ear.
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