Messing Around in Boats (LynnK)

I’ve never wanted a boat. Too expensive, too much upkeep, and Lord knows I wouldn’t want to be out on the water with me at the helm.

Not even in a canoe, as I learned years ago on the Potomac. Three of us gals got the brilliant idea of hiring a canoe in Georgetown and paddling it down to where an outdoor concert would take place. We’d seen others relaxing on the river with picnic suppers while the music floated over the water. Why not us?

Here’s why. We couldn’t get the $&%*# canoe to move in a straight line. The concert site was a trip of about twenty minutes, we’d been told, even for amateurs. The river was summer-smooth and calm. We set out with great enthusiasm, paddling with all our healthy young strength. Only to wind up nearly running aground on the opposite side of the river. Actual progress in the direction of our goal—maybe ten yards.

And on we went, on being a relative term, zig-zagging along the Potomac from bank to bank. Canoes slipped by us, moving straight as arrows. The sun slid into the west. In the distance, still invisible to us, the National Symphony began to play. By now we were paddling from shoreline to shoreline out of sheer stubbornness. We would, by God, get to the concert or die like galley slaves in the attempt.

That didn’t last long. Pain spoke up. Not as loudly as it would the next day, to be sure. But even as we glimpsed the Lincoln Memorial glowing in the night lights, and when we could see canoes peacefully bobbing in the water not terribly far ahead, we were rowed out. Wrung out. Done.

In common, silent agreement, we wrestled the canoe around, brought in our paddles, unwrapped our sandwiches, and munched them as the gentle current took us back to where we began. Ever the English major, I couldn’t help but think of The Great Gatsby’s last line: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

I hadn’t meant to write about that. But my most recent flirtation with boats, two days ago, put me in mind of how brief these flirtations always are. And how much fun. I was invited to speak at a luncheon sponsored by the—well, I’ll get the name wrong, I expect—the Women’s (Ladies?) Auxiliary of the Coronado Cays Yacht Club. AKA the “C-Gulls.”


There was no part of the experience I didn’t enjoy. The lunch was fabulous, especially the lemon tart for dessert


The club itself, located on San Diego Bay, is lovely.
But above all things, the 65 or 70 women who attended were friendly, funny, and altogether splendid. They reminded me, yet again, why I so love living here at the southwest corner of California.

Yes, they are women of privilege. But I expect many of them did not begin that way. For the most part, there’s little “old money” in San Diego. Much of the wealth sprang from entrepreneurs, or from families who settled here when there were few trees, little water, and not much else but the harbor and a dream. Military families who chose to stay here after WWII prospered as land values soared.

What never developed here, not in a meaningful fashion, was snobbery. Oh, there are enclaves of uppity-ness, I suppose, and places in the county I wouldn’t want to live for one reason or another. But the C-Gulls—like those of us who live in Coronado Village—are quintessential laid-back SoCal folks. Some have boats, fancy homes, and money for lots of travel. They have nice jewelry, too, but it’s usually artisan-made and unique. They’re also curious, welcoming, casual, and friendly. I had a great time in their company.

Just a couple of stories. We were seated at beautifully decorated autumn-themed tables for eight, and because I was hoping to get a few pictures that included me, I asked a lady sitting directly across if she would take shots at the table and wherever I wandered. She kindly agreed. After my speech, when she was returning the camera, she confessed that she’d no idea, when I made the request, that I was the guest speaker. She’d kept wondering, “Who is this strange woman and why does she want all these pictures of herself?”

There was also the former Texan who greeted me in the time-honored way romance writers have learned to expect. There was something about bodice-ripping and her wanting to meet a sex novelist. She was funny and only teasing. But I froze in place. I’d thought she said “ex-novelist,” and wondered what she’d heard that I didn’t know about my career!


They were a terrific group, each and every one, especially Mary (who invited me) and Diane, a gorgeous newly retired cop(also married to a cop) who volunteered to answer questions from writers about cops working undercover. She also won the raffle and insisted on sending me home with the basket full of wine, candles, lotions, and other fine swag.

Thanks, C-Gulls! And if ever there’s a spare spot on a boat trip, keep me in mind. I still don’t want a boat, but I’m always on the lookout for a friend with a boat.