Duffy Boats For the Daring

At seventeen and in love, I impressed my boyfriend by strapping myself into his Catamaran’s harness and risking life and limb to step out on the daggerboard and lean against the wind to keep her right. John and I were even stopped once by the Newport Harbor Patrol for speeding down Balboa Bay.

You could say I walked in the footsteps of my older brother who had also been detained, his outboard speedboat, Beetlebomb, breaking the 5MPH speed limit by a long shot. We both took after my father, the sailor who threw caution to the wind on any seagoing occasion. As captain, he was safe, but insane for the thrill of the Santa Ana bluster billowing in the mainsail.

When it came to pass, therefore, that no wife in my parents’ circle of friends would permit her aging husband to crew with Daddy let she become a windward widow, he sold the last sailboat in a string of many he had varnished and vanquished in swelling seas and settled—for a Duffy-style surrey with the fringe on top christened Rumgo (Gaelic for “Raw deal”). What thrill was there in such a jitney on the quiet bay once you’ve partaken of harrowing open-ocean adventures to Catalina Harbor? You might say “retirement” was not his thing.

Cocktail cruises were, however. An Irishman could adapt to any new stage of life as long as there was Pusser’s Rum aboard to drown one’s sorrows, and so my parents quickly became the most sought after invitation in the harbor. But after my mother passed away, Rumgo had to go. Daddy decided to rent from Duffy whenever the spirit moved him. And he needed more liquid fortification it seemed, in order to forget his increasing age. Friends joined him, eager to pretend they were teenagers without chaperones.

They invited me to join them on a Duffy harbor cruise. Practically birthed in a berth, I had always felt confident on board with my father at the helm; on such a gentle putt-putt, my only fear was that I might fall asleep for lack of challenge. The dutiful daughter, I graciously albeit gingerly accepted.

These senior citizens had reached the point where hearing is an issue, and so, orders from the captain, who had refused hearing aids his entire life based on the fact that “they only make me hear what I don’t want to hear,” could not promptly be carried out.

“Toss the line; man the fenders; take the wheel!”—I was the only one picking up clues, as I stretched from one end of the craft to the other, clutching, grabbing, hoisting, and shoving off. Guess I wouldn’t be napping after all.

Distraction was now a factor in their social circle. “Balboa Island is the one on the right,” I pointed with my finger as I politely, yet loudly, suddenly acted as tour guide to a group who had lived most of their lives there.

“Kathleen says the one on the left is Balboa Island,” Bif bellowed to Vickie, as he patted the seat next to him and gave her the flirting eye to bring her “little bum over here” next to him.

“I think it might be the one on the right!” piped up Georgina, politely insinuating that he could be wrong. And when we’d long since passed it, and were approaching yet another island in the bay, my father looked confused. “That’s not Balboa Island at all—it’s Linda Island, the man-made one!”

“I didn’t know Balboa Island was man-made!” Bif was genuinely taken aback at this revelation about the place where his family had spent over forty summers.

“Daddy, do you see that boat right there?” I calmly inquired, since the approaching vessel was swerving and weaving in an effort to circumvent my father’s erratic path. Georgina began to wave rather frantically in warning at the passengers of the powerboat bee-lining up the bay and rapidly closing in on us. Her hero and mine had altogether abandoned his steering stance, in fact, in an effort to point out to Bif that he was looking at the wrong island.

“Aye, aye. I’ve got it!” he yelled, when his navigation mechanism kicked back into action, and in one swift lurch (nearly over the starboard side), he was behind the tiller.

“Let’s thread the ferries!” he leapt to his feet at the titillation of a dare. I closed my eyes while he played chicken with the three barges carrying a full load of cars and tourists. I closed my ears to the horns honking and my father hollering, “Woo HOO! I’ve never gotten that close!”

Two hours later, as we rammed into the dock while trusty, youthful Duffy employees rushed to and fro to allay utter disaster, only one thing was crystal clear: Everyone agreed it had been a very nice ride. While my father backed his Lexus sedan out of the parking lot and into six lanes on Pacific Coast Highway without even turning his head to check traffic, I headed for my car and swallowed four extra-strength Tylenol—-with my own saliva.

Complete with rum, romance, and recklessness, a romp on a Duffy with duffers beats boogying on some young dude’s daggerboard any day.