Becoming My Own Boat Daddy

A few years ago at the start of the first pandemic summer, my friend Jen and I were wandering around the town docks, slightly buzzed on fruity local wine, looking for a Boat Daddy.

One of those mythical gentlemen who is both traveled and independently wealthy, but also looking to finally settle down into a life of domestic bliss aboard one of his 7 yachts. A man rugged enough to hold steady the wheel while battling the churning waters of Tierra del Fuego, but gentle enough to nurse your rescue dog back to health. A man who would always ask consent before tying you to the ship's mast and treating you like the naughty little deck hands we could be.

We feigned tripping over rough dock planks to see if any strapping watermen would catch us. We tied at least 17 incorrect bow-lines, but not one sailor wrapped their arms around us and mansplained how to correct our technique. We "accidentally" wandered aboard a yacht that looked almost exactly like the 12 foot fishing boat in which we had arrived at the pier and yet no tycoon met us with champagne and an itinerary for a trip to Ibiza. Not sure if our failure was due to poor timing, lack of exposed cleavage, or the fact that we were searching for a boat daddy on a small lake in a very rural US state, but as our buzz died and our thighs collected too many dock splinters, we decided to call off the search.

........

Now, back to the present day and Jen is living her best life backpacking through Columbia with the yacht-less love of her life. And I'm alone, but proudly staring out at the lake and my small fleet of boats. There are no yachts that could cross the open ocean, but there is a tiny aluminum fishing boat with sides scraped and scarred by my pitiful attempts to dock in windy conditions. There are no luxurious sun-bathing chaises, but if you hang your feet over the bow of the Whaler, you can pretty effectively get rid of your sock tan lines. And there are no champagne bars aboard any of the crafts, but you can set your box of wine in a convenient plastic cup-holder before making some over-confident maneuvers behind the wake surf boat.

Luckily, Jen and I were far better at executing our career choices then we were at searching for a maritime lover. Her adventurous attitude led her to take a risk during the pandemic and become a traveling occupational therapist, her infectious grin motivating many an elderly man to forget all about his arthritis pains and suddenly become the most compliant of patients. And for every post-op patient who cursed her out or slyly asked for a sponge bath, she is now spending her days sashaying through jungles and across mountain peaks with a man who would follow her to the ends of the earth and back. Meanwhile, although my dating life remained a circus-like epoch, sticking it out as a travel doctor and working at Covid hospitals paid impressive dividends and I was able to purchase a tiny lake cabin and small fleet with the financial backing and impulsive shopping habits of my best friend.

Staring down the barrel of an imminent 35th birthday with no partner, progeny, or property that is inhabitable year-round has forcibly dictated a need for some moments of introspection and reflection. As my friends are planning second marriages or starting go-fund-me campaigns to cover the birth of their 3rd children, I know society views me with a modicum of pity. And in all honesty, I have 3am moments of sheer terror where I wonder who is going to smother me at the nursing home when I break a hip and can no longer attend field trips to the casino. But then I blink and it's a brilliantly sunny Tuesday afternoon and I don't have another shift for weeks and my biggest decision is whether to snack on some hummus before or after a wake surfing session. And it suddenly seems like it all might be ok. Like maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Because I became my own F***ing Boat Daddy.