Boy, look at that traffic jam,” my boss said as he pushed the gearshift to park and leaned against the headrest. “Twenty minutes, at least.” A dozen or so pickups lined the arc of the public boat launch, headlight to tail light, waiting their turn to back into the dark waters of the reservoir. Exhaust billowed. Fingers drummed on steering wheels. Engines rumbled with diesel impatience. Or was it anticipation? It was the first Saturday in November, after all. First frost just two days earlier. Reports of hungry mallards filling social feeds for the last week. No wonder the boat launch was stacked.
“We’re going to have to hustle when we hit the water,” boss-man remarked, glancing at his phone. “You got your stuff organized?”
I nodded. My boss sighed.
The brake lights on the trailer in front of us swelled, then diminished, and the truck lurched forward 15 feet. One launch down, 11 more to go.
My boss pulled off his hat, rubbing his brow. “Listen, I’m gonna hit the outhouse. You good to man the wheel for a minute?”
“Sure,” I replied.
My boss unbuckled, popped the door, then paused. “You’ve driven a trailer before, right?”
“Yes,” I said, technically speaking the truth.
“Ok, see you in a bit.” He stepped into the darkness and I slid across to the driver’s seat. Though not a truck owner myself, I’d driven my brother’s F-Series more than a few times. And yes, I’d even taken a turn towing one of those little rental utility trailers during a family move. Forward only, of course, but still — that’s trailer-driving experience, right? I could surely manage holding our spot in line for five minutes while my boss answered the call of nature.
Swollen brake lights again. A shift into “D.” I eased the truck and trailer forward with the rest of the duck boat train, pressed the brakes, then pushed the gearshift back into park. Easy. Like playing a video game. So why were my palms sweaty?
Probably just the stress of hunting with my boss. “You gotta join me on the big water this fall,” he had offered back in July when he found out I was a duck hunter. “First time we get a big push of mallards from the north. Nothing like it.” Sounds great, I had said. And at the time, it did. But over the last few months things had grown tense between us. A critical performance review. A dispute over some papers that had or had not been filed (HAD, for the record). The growing realization that my boss was a perfectionist who demanded nothing less from his employees than he did from himself. And he was never satisfied with himself.
Another lurch. Another 30 feet closer to the ramp. Then another. And another.
Things seemed to be picking up now. Had they opened a second lane at the ramp? No sign of my boss, and we were just five rigs from the water. No, wait. Four rigs. I considered texting an update, then saw my boss’s phone sitting in the cup holder. Oh well. He’ll be back any second, right? Another shift. Another lurch. Three rigs.
Most of the drivers seemed to be old hands at this “launch-in-the-pitch-black-darkness” thing. I watched the truck at the ramp swing smoothly away from the water, stop, and then roll straight down the ramp until the trailer was half submerged. A petite woman hopped lightly from the driver’s seat, waded to the boat, unclipped the bow hook, and slid the craft over to the dock. Back into the driver’s seat and she was gone. Like a dance.
Two rigs.
My stomach lurched along with the truck as the next two vehicles launched in unison, side by side, like a synchronized swim routine. Still no sign of my boss. I looked in the rearview mirror. If anything, the line behind me had grown longer. Could I wave the next truck ahead while I waited? No, not enough room on the shoulder. You can do this, I told myself. Just like a video game.
The last two trucks pulled away, leaving the launch wide open. I turned the knob on the radio. It was tuned to the classic rock station. Squealing licks of Zeppelin. You’ve got this. You ARE a truck guy. You eat boat launches for breakfast, baby. I cranked the volume louder, windows down, heart racing.
I swung a wide arc as I’d seen the previous trucks do, facing straight away from the water, then shifted into reverse. So far so good. The backup cam monitor showed a straight shot to the black wavelets lapping at the bottom of the concrete ramp, just 40 feet distant. I eased my foot off the brake. 40 feet. 30 feet… 20.
Inexplicably, the trailer began drifting right. No big deal. Just need to correct, which I did.
Three seconds later the trailer was perpendicular to the launch. I tugged the gearshift into drive and pulled forward. Back up to the starting position, where I waved a hand apologetically at the line of rumbling headlights. Deep breath. Reverse again. Straight back, straight back, easy…
Somehow the trailer ended up perpendicular to the water once again, this time on the left. What on earth? I could swear I had the wheel perfectly straight. My face burned as I pulled forward again. Another restart. Another apologetic wave. Back to reverse. Easy, easy….
Before I could pull forward a third time from a perpendicular jackknife, I heard a tap on the driver’s window. I turned, fully expecting to see my boss’s livid face — and instead was met with a smile in the glow of a headlamp. It was the petite woman from the previous launch. Still in her waders. On her way back to unmoor her boat and head out to hunt, presumably. But instead she was motioning for me to roll the window down.
I did.
“Mind if I give this a shot?” she asked, speaking over the wail of Robert Plant.
“Please,” I said and popped open the door.
Three swift turns and 90 seconds later, my boss’s boat was bobbing on its rope alongside the dock, the truck and trailer were idling clear of the ramp, and I was back in the driver’s seat. The woman was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, nice work,” my boss called out, adjusting his belt as he approached. “That launch can be kind of a pain in the dark.”
I shrugged.
“Tell you what. You did such a great job launching, when we get back after sunset, I’m gonna have you back the empty trailer back down so I can drive the boat on. It will be a little trickier without the boat on it, but clearly — you’ve got this.”
Fortunately, we happened to encounter a swarm of insects on the high-speed run back to the ramp (“Insects, huh? I didn’t see ‘em,” my boss grunted) that caused me to rub my eyes so aggressively they became red and inflamed (“Possible allergic reaction?” I suggested between gasps) — so I had to tell my boss I just wasn’t up to it. But from here on out, of course, I’d be happy handle the launch duties.
Then for the next six weeks my neighbors put out lawn chairs for the nightly spectacle of watching me back in-and-out, in-and-out of our driveway with my friend’s low-profile black cargo trailer, no boat for physical reference (I appreciated the neighborly support, but the scorecards were a bit much). Learning that critical man-skill was so worth it, and — as a bonus — I got to learn how to replace both the brake and the clutch on my old truck.