The Wave

Kelley had tasked me with packing a cooler for the two of us, and I was ready when she arrived at Morning Wood.  Or as ready as I could’ve been.  I wasn’t really sure what to expect.  I didn’t know anything about Kelley’s friends, didn’t know anything about going out on a lake.  Hell, I didn’t even know which lake we were going to, or if our plan was to sit our asses on a beach or in a boat.  As it turned out, it was the latter, which was probably why Kelley let out an Oh wow, okay as I climbed into her passenger seat with two 24-packs of Rolling Rock.  The last time I’d had a Rolling Rock was probably in high school, but something about the big green cases spoke to me, the promise of the emerald 12-ounce cans inside them.  Perfect for the lake, no?

But it was only going to be five of us—me, Kelley, and three of her friends—so forty-eight beers was probably overkill, especially considering the others were bringing their own alcohol.  Or Suds and Ava, a couple who Kelley had met in med school, were.  The odd man out, Chet, another friend from med school, was newly sober.  From alcohol, at least.  He’d just gotten back from some sort of festival in the Arizona desert, where, according to Kelley, he and the other revelers had partaken in various “spiritual” and “wellness” exercises—applying muddy body paint to one another before dancing in a trance to the throbbing techno music, the strobing lights; taking ice baths (two-to-a-tub) while listening to the pling plong of a steel drum being played by an 80-year-old Chilean woman; contorting themselves in obscene and orgiastic yoga poses prior to meals in order to be “filled with light” so that they did not overindulge on the actual, and limited amount of, food.  Alcohol dimmed this inner light, they said, and, accordingly, it was strictly prohibited.  Ecstasy, magic mushrooms, and other psychedelics, on the other hand, allowed it to burn brighter, so these were encouraged.  Anyway, Chet, God bless him, had volunteered to captain the pontoon, so I wasn’t going to complain.

“Oh, and by the way,” Kelley added, turning into the marina parking lot, “Chet kind of had a crush on me in med school.”

Okay, great.

The others were already there waiting for us.  Suds and Ava were flirting with each other while a short guy, who I assumed was Chet, stood over by the jetty, facing the water with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes cast upwards, revealing a shaven and pasty dome.  Filling himself with light, I figured.  When Kelley and I hopped out, he swiveled his hairless head in our direction and fixed me with a hairy eyeball, which only grew hairier as I withdrew the two cases of beer from the floorboard.  Sizing up the competition? or casting judgments upon he who had not yet seen the light (or filled himself up with it, rather), who had not yet sipped from the cup of sobriety?  Who could say.  Behind me, a truck towed a sparkling fishing boat.  Bright white gravel crunched beneath its tires.  I reminded myself to be grateful there was a DD as we walked over to the others.  Plus, he must’ve been, what, a full foot shorter than me, so there was that.  Anyway, Kelley quickly introduced me to everyone, and then we were off, Suds, Ava, Kelley, and I up in the front, Chet behind the wheel. 

I first noticed it as we idled past the No Wake Zone sign.  The wave.  Of the gesticulation variety, not the aquatic.  A family in a white ski boat was coming in from an early morning outing.  At the wheel, the dad slowly raised his hand.  Clearly a captain-to-captain salute, so I turned and looked at our own, Chet, who was returning the greeting in a similar fashion.  This repeated itself multiple times as passed other boats, this acknowledgement, this boat wave.  Another ski boat, a couple fishing boats, a few pontoons, then a few more ski boats and pontoons.  It was usually just a casual hand, sometimes a little lift of the forefinger from the steering wheel, once or twice a raised beer can.  On these, Chet’s reciprocation was a bit more languid, more reluctant.  But I’d become fascinated by the wave, the comradery among us mariners, so I happily filled in for him and would raise my Rolling Rock to toast these passing boaters.  Eventually, I just started waving at everyone, whether they raised a drink or not.  I was getting the hang of it, and Kelley seemed to be impressed by how quickly I’d grown my sea legs.  Suds and Ava, too.  They were all giggling, drinking, having a grand time.  The only one who didn’t seem to be that impressed, who wasn’t having fun, was Chet, who sat behind the wheel, his brow furrowed, his lower lip swelled in a pout.

Out in the channel, the boats became fewer and farther between, so I turned my attention to the docks interspersed along the banks, the big-windowed homes up on the cliffs.  They all got a wave, too.  But then I noticed we were coming up on a massive flotilla.  Shit, there must’ve been ten, eleven, twelve of them, boats, all tied together.  A giant two-story pontoon in the middle served as the party’s epicenter.  Half-naked revelers danced on the upper deck.  A couple held hands and leaped into the water, where dozens of others bobbed about with beers in their hands, noodles between their legs.  A few jet skis were idling in slow circles around the fleet.  As we got closer, I gathered myself, took a couple deep breaths, took an even deeper sip from my beer, finished it, and then I shot my hand up, the thumb, index and middle fingers extended.  A fat guy on the bottom noticed first, and he returned my wave with his own, hooting and hollering, which got the attention of the entire party.  What followed was the most raucous cheer you’d ever heard, ever seen.  Nailed it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Chet demanded.

I was back on the lookout for other boats, and it was loud, what with the wind whipping past my ears, the engine whirring in the back, Kelley and Ava screaming whatever song was coming through the speakers, the pontoons below the flat deck plowing through the water, so it took me a second to realize the bald munchkin was talking to me.  Kelley had heard him, though.

“We’re having fun, Chet,” she said.  “Relax.”

Yeah, Dr. Cueball, and it looked like you’d shirked your captainly duties, so I was simply filling in for you.  You’re welcome by the way!

“Well, he’s distracting me.  I can’t see the other boats.  It’s unsafe.”

I laughed at him.  I couldn’t help it.  I was rolling, was feeling the five or six Rolling Rocks, which were only amplified by the rocking undulations of the boat, and Chet was starting to look pretty ridiculous sitting there behind the steering wheel, like a petulant toddler in a booster seat, upset that his mommy hadn’t cut the edges off his grilled cheese.  Are you kidding me, bud? I asked him.  I’m basically pointing them out for you.  Look, I said, waving at a fishing boat heading in the opposite direction, back towards the boat party, there’s another one right there.  Have a good one bro! I bellowed after it, raising my beer and taking a long swig. 

Chet squealed.  “Stop it!”

“Chet, c’mon man,” Suds laughed. “Let’s just try and have a good time.”

“Yeah, we really appreciate you driving,” Ava said, trying to appease him, the big baby.

I didn’t want to ruin the day, so I thought about toning it down, my wave, perhaps switch to a head nod, before I fomented a full-fledged mutiny.  Chet was losing the faith of his fellow sailors, but just a quick look over at him made me realize I didn’t really give a fuck.  I was having a great time with Kelley and her friends.  Kelley and Ava were back to dancing.  Suds asked me if he could bum a Rolling Rock. 

A few minutes later, we came upon a ski boat pulling three children on a tube.  The children were jockeying for position, laughing maniacally as they fought for a handle, anticipating the arrival of our wake.  You already know I hit them with a wave.  One of the kids even risked letting go of a handle and waved back at me! 

“That’s it,” Chet screamed, yanking back on the throttle. 

Abruptly, we slowed down, our wake waned.  Kelley and Ava pitched forward and had to catch themselves on the seats.  The roar from the engine died down to a purr.  Chet hopped out of the captain’s chair and lifted up a seat cushion behind him.  He withdrew a life jacket and put it on, buckled it.  Suds asked him what he was doing.

“I’m getting off,” he responded. 

“What? Here?”

Chet moved his way to the back of the boat.  Suds stood up and tried to grab his arm, but Chet slipped away.  Kelley was shaking her head as Ava screamed hysterically.

 “Oh my God!  What do we do?”

But Chet was determined.  He lifted the aluminum gate, swung it outwards on its hinges, and then hopped off into the water, just like that. 

“Chet!” Ava screamed after him. 

Since I’d already taken over the duties of the wave, I figured I may as well assume the rest of the captain’s duties, too.  I took another swig from my beer and then got behind the wheel, boating-while-intoxicated laws be damned.  The authorities would understand. 

Kelley was trying to calm Ava as I gently pushed the throttle and turned the wheel.  We slowly idled over to where Chet was bobbing aimlessly in the water.  When we came up alongside him, I hung over the side and asked him if he wanted to stop being such a big, bald baby and hop back on the boat, but he just turned his head and continued to drift away, allowing himself to be pulled by the channel’s current.  Suit yourself, I told him. 

As we full-throttled it out of there, I bid him adieu and hit him with a goodbye wave.