Chained Reactions

For the uninitiated, I will tell you that towing a boat to the lake is quite an ordeal. It looks so easy when you see proud men cruising down the road with all manner of craft bouncing happily behind them. But smart guys know there are many orderly procedures to follow and critical safety checks to make before starting out.

I might also suggest that the general handbook for towing operations is not all that instructive. It only warns of the danger of excessive speed or the common concern of tire pressures, bland but practical cautions which leave the more intuitive learner who waits to read them while racing down highway somewhat distressed.

As everyone in my family knows, I am a sucker for a good checklist. I am the happiest in my life when I have in my hand a thorough list of instructions, complemented by all known human languages to guide me. Properly following instructions eliminates the problem men fear most: the fear of being wrong.

There were many wonderful Christmas mornings past, my friends, when I taught my boys how important a good checklist is to all civilized and thoughtful men. After the womanly obsessions of bright ribbons and paper were tossed to the side, the boys would impatiently urge me to construct and perfect various objects of molded green plastic desire. I recall several items like GI Joe’s jet aircraft which offered us very little challenge. But then there were some, like Skeletor’s Castle, which presented us with a seemingly impossible task and pushed our fear of being wrong to the brink.

Before we’d get to business on Christmas day, still in my pajamas, I would sit on my chair, smile and wave The Instructions before their chubby little faces. I’d set my hot cup of black coffee on the end table and declare, “Men, I’m about to introduce to you a little slice of heaven! That’s right, in a few moments you will see Skelotor’s Castle appear before your very eyes!”

I could feel the anticipation building as they gathered around my feet. I would assign each boy a certain a task, a particular piece of the puzzle to lovingly clutch while The Instructions were read. “Let’s see, Part A for you. You hold Part B. I think you should just hang on to Part C, little boy, and try not to put in your mouth, ok?.”

I would then read the preface of The Instructions word for word, instructing them that “Cautions” were mere obstacles which might be overcome later while “Warnings” must be adhered to at all times lest calamitous disaster and human tragedy be our end result.

And then, with great fanfare, I would brighten their sleepy little eyes with the magic words, “Here we go … are you all ready? … STEP ONE …”

Oh, those are the truly precious moments among men when, guided by The Instructions, our expectations are high and our confidence soars. It’s the time when men prepare to work feverishly together with a common goal in mind, learning how each internal piece fits to another creating something bigger and better than just a box of individual parts, communicating the grand theme of the big picture, when we and our manly souls all become one with the machine.

Without fail, about that time, The Wife would rush in, snap Skeletor’s Castle together with a casual disregard for the intended order of things, slap a few decals here and there, and then yell, “OK, that’s that, now everyone get in here and help me clean the kitchen.”

Yeah, but even she knows not to get between me and the pre-boating checklist. This is much more serious than just being wrong and far more expensive than any mere child’s toy.

It’s always more serious when considering the relationship men build with their machines. By following the rules of instruction step by step we learn what goes on inside those machines and learn to communicate intimately with them.

This is the kind of process that allows Grandpa and I to sit muted out on the porch on a warm summer’s evening, listening to the far away screech and howl of pickups taking the long turn at the intersection of FF and Z highways.

“Sounds to me,” I eventually say, “like Red’s old truck is in need of some new tie rods.”

“Yep,” Grandpa grunts his response, softly spitting into a paper-lined cup, “that’s tie rods, fer sure.”

Ehh … maybe I got carried away there … honestly speaking, I don’t know my tie rods from my toy terriers but that’s not the point.

The point is I think this relationship between man and machine is a serious issue because of the way I have learned to go about it. It’s all connected together somehow.

Like I said, I find the general boat towing operations handbook to be severely lacking. So, through the wondrous insight of human trial and error, guilty as I am among my peers, I have been forced to fashion my own pre-boating checklist.

While it might seem an odd habit to some, for me it all begins now with a purposeful walk-around, strapping certain things down and tightening other things up, inspecting each individual item and ensuring each understands its role in the machine. This manly communication between me and the parts is significant and I know if it’s not conducted properly, if procedures aren’t ruthlessly followed or disciplined to the rules, if our communication is not expressed in the understandable and straight forward way of knowledgeable men, then our relationship will sour and failure to obtain our common goal is a distinct possibility.

A month or so ago, before winter’s chill frightened us away, I proceeded with my practiced walk-around in preparation for another glorious day on the lake.

I hooked all the parts together and then stood behind the truck for a moment to gather my thoughts.

“You see,” I began pompously, “you guys are like links in a chain.”

“We are links in a chain,” small tinny voices all replied to me in unison.

“Yeah, exactly, that’s what I said.”

“No, no, really, we really are links in a chain! Down here! We’re hooked up right down here, safely connecting your boat trailer to your truck hitch.”

I cleared my head and started over.

“Right, ok, being the links in a chain that you are…,” I bent over, looking down the length of the safety chain and I could tell that all the links were hanging on my every word, “… it’s very important that each and every one of you is willing to sacrifice yourself for the others.”

All the shiny silver links smiled back at me and nodded in agreement. Such good little links!

But then this one link, the third from the right end, raised his little metallic hand in the air.

“Uh, sir,” he stuttered, “I was wondering, what exactly do you mean by ‘sacrifice’?”

“Ahh,” my thoughts confirmed, “there’s always one in every crowd … and this sort of confusion is precisely why we conduct the pre-boating walk-around in the first place.”

“Well,” I huffed, “it’s fairly obvious, I think. But to clearly explain my position on that I will say this to you. Should one of the links to the left or right of you, perhaps the number 2 link or the number 4, should either of those links for whatever reason become weakened on incapacitated in any way, or should they, God forbid, be cut the from your length by any hand, then I would expect you, number 3, to take up that position in the chain and keep it together.”

“You can count on me,” said number 3.

Together the links shouted, “We were all forged in the same fire!”

“That’s good to hear,” I replied.

Then the heavy hook on the end of the chain called out as I was walking away.

“Sir! There’s one more thing before you go.”

“Yes?” I inquired impatiently.

“Sir, as leader of the chain,” I noticed all the links shivered a bit as he began, “err-um, I mean, as a leading representative of the entire chain, I must tell you that sometimes we feel as though you are just using us.”

“No, not in the least,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, I know you understand that we are all willing to go our length for you but it’s just that some of the links get the impression that you occasionally ignore the strength of our combined effort and take us for granted.”

“We need,” the hook went on, “to hear every now and then that you appreciate our willingness to sacrifice in your service.”

“Hook,” I said, “you can rest assured that I have complete confidence in the ability of the chain.”

“Thank you,” he replied and the whole chain rattled and stiffened.

Leaving the chain in its place, I walked back behind the trailer. The trailer looked up at me and winked its turn signal.

“You know,” the trailer whispered, “I was listening in on that little confrontation up there.”

“No, now, I wouldn’t call it a confrontation,” I said. “I think the chain just wanted a little support and I’m always happy to do what I can in that regard.”

“We’ve never even had cause to use that damn chain, Bamboo, and you know it,” the trailer said coldly. “I’ve always held firmly to the hitch. That chain is merely a back-up safety precaution. I honestly don’t know where that chain gets off … I mean, it’s never been tested like I have.”

“I don’t want to test it,” I said sheepishly.

“Nor should you have to!” replied the trailer. “Listen, pay no attention to that chain’s arrogant nonsense. You can depend on me.”

“Very well,” I smiled, “I admit one must admire the chain in a way but you have quite a burden to bear and I appreciate what you say trailer, I really do. Now, carry on, if you please.”

“Absolutely, sir, and with pleasure!” saluted the trailer as it settled the boat more steadily on its shoulders.

I looked up to the boat and lovingly patted her smooth, round aluminum pontoons with my hands. “Good boat, good boat,” I hummed.

“Yeah, right!” the boat responded with a tone of disgust.

“What? What did I say?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing!” feigned the boat in her throaty voice. “Do you think I’m deaf or something? I heard what was going on down there. ‘Oooh, oooh, pretty links in a chain, you are so wonderful!’ and ‘oooh, trailer you’re my hero!’ If that’s the way you’re going to be all the time with them, Bamboo, well, then … well, then maybe you can just go to the lake with them and leave me here!”

“Now, boat,” I began.

“No, I’m serious! You obviously don’t need me to go boating, not as long as you have your strong chain and perfect trailer!”

“Boat, please!” I cried.

“Oh, stop it!” she said. “You are so pitiful when you act that way! Look, I’m going to go to the lake with you this time but I don’t want to hear any more about chains and trailers when we get there. They act as though I’m not even here, as if I’m not the reason they exist in the first place. I’m really sick and tired of that!”

“Boat, come on, I was just consoling them a little. I have to do these things sometimes. It’s all part of the walk-around. Please, you know how much you mean to me.”

“Yeah, I know,” the boat sighed. “It’s just … I guess I just forget all that when I hear you carrying on with them before you even get to me. I have needs too, you know. It’s not you, it’s probably all my fault. Don’t worry, my batteries are fully charged.”

“Thank you, thank you, boat,” I breathed.

“And, hey!” she purred, “When we get out to the lake … I’ll take you for a real ride, buster.”

“Oh, boat!” I laughed, “You’re such a tease!”

I walked toward the truck shaking my head and wondering if I would ever really get the chance to take advantage of the boat’s intimate offer or if we would even make it to the lake that day.

As I passed the old trailer hitch, he nervously spoke up in that rusty voice of his.

“Sir, if you have a moment…”

“Oh, geez, not now, hitch!” I answered firmly. “I really don’t have any time for you right now. Just hang on, will you?”

I didn’t pause any longer to listen to the hitch, leaving his mumbled request dangling in the air I abruptly ended the walk-around and leapt quickly into the truck.

“Christ!” I exclaimed as the truck’s engine responded to my key. “Have you ever heard such a thing? I mean, damn, they all wanted a piece of me today!”

“Hey, man,” rumbled the truck, “I’m not saying a word.”

“I know, I know, and you don’t know how much that means to me, truck,” I said as I grasped the steering wheel. “You and I … well, we’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? And, yet, so much is left unspoken between us. Rain, snow … do you recall that ice storm? Dude, you really pulled us through that one. You have so much more to worry about than insecure chains or powerless trailers. These new guys back there, they haven’t been through anything like we’ve endured but they seem to need so much reassurance all the time just the same. It’s just so nice to talk to something like you in a casual way, you know, something that really understands its role in life.”

“I appreciate that you added more brake fluid to my reservoir on Tuesday. But, honestly, I have no comment on what you may have attached behind me,” replied the truck.

“I knew you needed that fluid and it was my pleasure, really. And you know,” I said, “I’ve noticed that about you. That’s so you, man! I realize you’ve got your own components to organize, systems to control and so on. You don’t need any added worries with brakes and tires and wheels and all that. You have your hands full and you hardly ever complain. But sometimes it’s like, I don’t know, it’s like you have your own agenda or like you want to hide things from me. I’ve seen you, you know, on those days when you just give up and I can see it in your headlights, you just shut me off. Maybe you should open up a little bit more every now and then. Maybe if you just told me what you need more often …”

The truck idled quietly but did not speak.

“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. Hey, what do you say we stop and get some gas before we hit the lake? Would that be ok with you?”

“If that’s what you want then it’s fine with me,” said the truck.

“Ok.” I paused and then the tears welled up and I said without thinking, “Truck, I love you, man!”

“Please,” the truck growled, “for crying out loud, let’s just go.”

And off to the lake we so proudly went together.

Cheers,

Mb