Iam rarely accused of being overly intelligent. In fact, friends point to my 125-year-old wooden sailing boat as absolute proof of mental deficiency. As further evidence they feel a nod in the direction of my dingy is more than sufficient. I like that dingy. It is strong, stable, and happily carries 5 full size adults diligently ignoring should each of them be slightly over loaded with internal liquid ballast.

So why do my friends smirk when they look upon her graceful lines? I’ll tell you why. It is because my dinghy has no motor. Shame of shames! When we are not out making our humanitarian deliveries Vega’s lovely traditional tender is a sailing dingy. A nimble creature of the seas that glides gracefully through the water under the power of wind alone. When the wind fails, out come her sweeps and she is easily driven along under pure man (or woman) power.

Little does it help my tainted image to remind the neighbors rowing is a fantastic antidote to the hops based abdominal protrusion haunting every cruising anchorage and marina on earth. They just hoist another mug and mutter about heart attacks or heat strokes. What they really fear is a loss of prestige.

Sadly, we cruisers have degenerated into snobbish prestige seekers. Status is no longer estab-lished by the size of one’s boat, whose mast is longest, or whose bilge pump can eject a stream of water the furthest. Status is now directly proportional to the size of one’s outboard motor.

Notice how the new semi ridged inflatables with their massive outboards always seem to be clos-est to the bar? Then come the new inflatables with more modest engines, and finally the older inflatables and hard dinghies, some with motors, others - even further along the line - with only oars. If short pieces of aluminum pole with plastic bits on the end, or two pieces of wood nailed together, can be called oars.

GrangerMind you, I have nothing against outboards, or inflatables for that matter. Inflatables are a blessing for smaller boats and outboards are fantastic for getting lines onto a pier, carrying out kedge anchors, and pushing the bow around a corner in the marina - usually when some million-dollar plastic monster is directly in your path, and the engine dies.

That brings me back to why I love my little dinghy. I can get it started, and it always starts first time. Perhaps the importance of this minor detail can be traced to having always owned outboard motors that refused to start. The more scholarly say it is because as a small boy I wanted a bright orange potty with poison green strips.

I’m not sure when or where the gods of out-board motors and I parted ways. Perhaps I’m just one of those poor souls that attract their wrath. You know, the way some people seem to attract lightning? I have only to purchase the best running outboard in the marina to have it suddenly, as if by magic, become the most reticent starter afloat. And it is not because I fail to care for the little monsters either.

Recently domestic pressures drove me to purchase another outboard motor. This time I was determined it should not be another slothful clunker. For weeks I diligently observed the other dinghies on the anchorage. Careful to note which were starters and which showed the slightest signs of awkward ret-icence. Like a clandestine operative deep in enemy territory my binoculars constantly scanned the moor-ings. I gathered my intelligence with care, charting each motors reaction to various situations.

It wasn’t long before the neighbors began to think I was either a frustrated peeping Tom or suffer-ing from some bizarre form of paranoia. Yet it is vitally important the motor being observed remain unaware least it present a fraudulent image of its actual atti-tude towards work. ender ThoughtsT60-

You may laugh, but I know from hard person-al experience that outboard motors are deviously sadistic little monsters masquerading under the guise of servile effort saving objects.

My theory was proven when I zeroed in on a little seagull motor that never, I repeat never, seemed to give its owner the slightest twinge of a problem. After long negotiations, a river of liquid incentive, and an embarrassing price paid on the bar top, I became the owner of that spotlessly clean subservient little motor.

It seemed my long chain of rotten luck had finally ended as that solid little Seagull motor effort-lessly powered me towards the tall wooden masts and long tapering yards of my home. The sunset was spec-tacular, the tropical breeze warm and refreshing. My life in general effortlessly put-putting along beautifully. The lit-tle gem even started the first time Meggi gave it a pull.

This attitude on the part of my new motor lasted exactly long enough for me to be-gin trusting the little demon. First to go were the mast, sails, and rudder. Then “emergency pad-dles” replaced the lovely long sweeps. Who needed those bulky items spoiling the nice clean lines of my tender as she slid through the water, a grinning skipper on the handle of her trusty motor. Such pleasure. Such Joy to pull the cord and have my motor burst into effortless power. I should have known this blissful state of affairs would never last.

The god of outboard motors choose a Sunday, regatta day of course, to strike. It was the day a few friends came to visit and I happily suggested we take the dinghy to a near bye island for a day of picnic and snorkeling. It was one of those perfect days that remind you why you gave up life as an office slave and went cruising. At least it was until we all tumbled aboard, well-tempered with various forms of liquid ballast, for a ride out to the island.

We were half way across the bay when my motor sputtered and coughed. Then with a rather flatulent sigh it died completely. Oh well, must need some tinkering I thought. Of course, being the skip-per, I always take the starting duties. It’s a question of manly image and all that. Just goes to show, more fool me.As I pulled and pulled that blankiety blank starter cord I foully reflected on the adverse effect of such traditions. Oh, the motor would sputter and sput, cough and fume, but would it actually run? Fat chance of that my friends. It wasn’t long before I relented and out came the little emergency oars. They lasted roughly two minutes before bending into useless aluminum contortions of little use to man or fish. That set me off muttering how the people who design and sell such useless, even dangerous, things should be required by law to actually use them before putting them out to market. The bright side of that thought being the vast number of conmen and pikers that would drift out to sea never to be seen again.

Now, being aboard a drifting dingy in the midst of a regatta, even if it is one being franticly paddled bye the simple expedient of various hands reaching down into the water, isn’t the most popular of positions. My lovely sweeps, carefully tied on the deck alongside the mast and sail, were now about as useful as fuel still in the marina tanks or wind somewhere else.

Red faced with embarrassment, or perhaps ex-ertions, I finally accepted a tow. Oh, and did I mention that the gods of outboard motors have a way of twisting the dagger? Our tow came from a grinning 11-year-old, in a sailing dingy of course. And yes, as usual, the entire sailing committee were present as we dropped off the towline and drifted up to the dock. Little won-der my dingy once again has her sails and long sweep’s back, it’s actually a matter of pride.

(Shane Granger is the skipper of historical vessel Vega)