The Boat Fire

By Mary R. Shefferman

I don't know how old I was, or where it happened exactly. Until earlier today, I had forgotten all about it. The engine on my Dad's boat, The Carpetbagger, a 24-foot Lures, blew up. It might have been the late '60s or the early '70s ('70 or '71, at the latest). I don't really remember much. A few snapshots. Almost like I wasn't there. Like someone told me the story once and I remember it from that. I was young, that's the way memories work, I suppose.

One snapshot is my brother Mark and me in the cabin -- my Mom telling us to stay there. The smell of singed hair. Maybe burning flesh. I don't recall my brother Mike or my Aunt Delores being injured. But they were. Second or third degree burns. Yes, third, I believe. I don't recall being frightened, just the feel of adrenaline burning through me. The air tasted like fire.

Another snapshot is some of us crawling across a rope onto one of the boats that had flocked over to help. It was almost immediate -- it seemed like a full circle of big and small boats had miraculously appeared. Men shouting, tossing fire extinguishers. Me and my singed hair on some stranger's boat. I still didn't know that Mike had been hurt. Maybe he and Delores weren't on that boat with us. Maybe they went on some other boat straight to the hospital. Maybe Mike remembers.

The next thing was the ride in the back of the police car. I'd never been in a police car. I had that smoldering feeling that follows the adrenaline burst. The car seat was clean and uninviting. I felt like I could just slide right out of it into oblivion. I think they drove us to the hospital where Mike and Dolores were. My Dad, probably Uncle Marty (Delores's husband), and Uncle George stayed on the boat. Uncle George wore a life vest all the time he was on the boat because he couldn't swim, but he loved to fish. Afterwards, my Dad wondered if George was brave or stupid. I think he was brave. I think my Dad thought he was brave, too. But my Dad doesn't express things like that very well. They got the fire put out and they got the boat towed.

My Aunt Delores had thrown one of her shoes overboard because she thought we'd have to swim. That's how she got her leg burned. Or part of how. I remember her throwing the other shoe down on the floor in the entryway of the old house. She said: "I guess your dog can play with this." Our dog was a St. Bernard named Bruno. He didn't play with shoes. He was a bit too old for playing in general by then. It was a nice gesture, but at the time I remember thinking how silly it was to give Bruno a shoe to play with.

I think I remember Mike going to school with the bandage on his arm. Mike had been eating an apple and sitting on the engine box when the engine blew up. The engine was situated in the center of the deck and had a big box over it because it protruded up onto the deck. The engine box was a great place to sit while you were fishing, although it sometimes got hot. Or in Mike's case, sometimes -- well, at least once -- it blew up. It must have thrown him into the air. He blamed the apple. He joked that it was a rotten apple. You have to blame something. I doubt it was my Dad's fault. He's good with engines; he respects them and understands them. He'd never have gone out with so many people on the boat if there was a problem. So the apple is as good a place to lay blame as any.

Almost an eternity later, we were upstate for some sort of court hearing or trial or whatever. Delores had sued. I don't think she was angry, but I don't know. They don't tell things like that to children. Maybe it had to do with getting money out of the insurance company. So I remember being in a courthouse in upstate New York for this court thing. I wasn't allowed in the courtroom, so I waited outside with my Mom. I got the hiccups. She had a packet of sugar in her purse for me to swallow, followed by cold water from the water fountain. I loved that remedy -- and still do. It rarely, if ever, fails. I loved letting the sugar dissolve in my mouth slowly, using my tongue to grind the granules against each other. Sweet grit. Then a cold splash melting it quickly until all that was left was the sweetness. And the hiccups were gone.

Later, there was talk about how Mike's doctor and Delores's doctor had given very different instructions on how to deal with the burns. Mike's doctor had been in some war and had seen a lot of soldiers with burns, and he told Mike to keep the dressing on his burn until it stunk so bad he couldn't stand it anymore. I'd imagine a young boy would be able to stand a pretty strong stink -- boys can be like that. They like to fart. Delores's doctor was an old country doctor type. He told Delores to change the dressing on her burns every day. She ended up with some bad scarring. I guess she sued so she could get money from my Dad's insurance company to pay for some skin grafts or something. I really don't know and I probably shouldn't speculate. Mike only had some minor scarring. But he used to get white splotches there every summer. Scar tissue doesn't tan the way regular skin does. I don't think he has a problem with it anymore. It was at least 30 years ago.