Packing two families on a rental houseboat the size of a port-a-potty wasn’t going to be easy. The last time I tried anything like that was as a student in the 70’s. A bunch of us tried to sneak into the drive-in to see Jaws for free. We packed into a car with some of us in the trunk. Try seeing if you can make your ankles meet your ears. By the time they pried me out of my tomb in the back, I had to be unfolded like a piece of Egyptian parchment.

Fast forward to the nineties and watch history repeat itself. I’m with my wife Fran and our 11 year-old, Amy, and we’re racing west along the TransCanada from Calgary to Sicamous. In the Shuswap language Sicamous means ‘the place where the houseboats gather’. We’re racing because John, his wife, and their two kids are waiting. He is staring at his watch at this very moment wondering if we’ve been abducted by aliens. We’re supposed to be there now so our two families could learn how to maneuver the houseboat.

John is the most uptight guy I’ve ever known. That’s why we are white-knuckling it (as much as a twenty-year-old Volvo will allow). He’s told us a dozen times to arrive early so we can all learn to take turns being skippers on the big girl.

On our arrival we slam on the brakes and run down the wharf to start our lessons. He greets us on the stern. That’s the back of the boat. I’m convinced it’s called that to confuse us people from the prairies. John sits relaxed and salutes us with a can of coke. No nasty look. No snide remark. He seems to operate on the principle that the more stressed everyone else is, the less stressed he becomes.

“I’ve had the lesson, he says, “and only one person needs to do the actual driving. So we’re good to go.”

Great, I think, if he had only made that clear from the start, it wouldn’t have felt like being in the Le Mans to get here.

The moment we set out on the narrow Sicamous channel that leads into Shuswap Lake, John must maneuver past a bridge. I have a foreboding feeling, like the time I got called to the principal’s office. The conversation went something like this.

“So, what brings you here young man?” Mr. Harrison asked.

“I’ve been wrongfully accused of smuggling books out of the library.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. No one’s actually caught me with one sir.”

“Then you’re here because?”

“Like I said. Other kids are lying, saying I’m jacking books.”

The conversation went round and round until he said he had more important matters and he’d deal with me later, which he didn’t.

Now to the present. We brace ourselves to take the houseboat beneath the bridge, John’s hands leap from the steering wheel like he’s received a jolt of electricity and his kids run for cover, followed by our little Amy.

“What’s wrong?” we shout.

“I can’t control this.” He begins to shake, perspire, and pace. “The steering is gone.”

When we begin to shake, perspire, and pace, it’s as if the kryptonite has been removed and superman is back to his old self. He commandeers us safely beneath the bridge and into the welcoming expanse of the Shuswap. We travel for hours until we find one, a suitable beach to slide up on, much like how the landing crafts that stormed the beaches of Normandy did it. Only with him at the helm, it is more dangerous.

The flat-bottomed feature of the houseboat allows for a 90˚angle slide onto to the beach. John acts like any deviation would be as catastrophic as a space shuttle on reentry, you become a flaming marshmallow or you’re bounced off the atmosphere to Jupiter. He begins to shake and perspire, but when he turns and sees us doing likewise, he jettisons caution and we arrive safely ashore. Fran and I assist in establishing a beachhead by securing the boat to nearby trees with rope.

Where are the children during this commotion you ask? Good question because in all the fretting about crashing the boat into the shore, we’re not sure. They seep out of the cracks like cockroaches as John’s blood pressure returns to 115 over 75. His kids are pale as ghosts because they’ve seen their dad in action but our Amy is beaming for she loves the spontaneity of their games of hide-and-seek.

Just before you imagine we all have supper and settle down to a roaring campfire on the beach singing kumbaya-think again. Did I say the Shuswap is sweltering in summer? It’s an alliterative fact. After a long walk on the beach seeing a million round rocks Swiss families Robinson return to the boat. John’s wife cranks up the AC as I power up the refrigerator and get the icemaker going for cocktails. Fran has the compressor working to blow up the dinghy, while the kids are listening to music. John is in the shower washing off what’s left of the bucket of sweat excreted by jittery nerves.

You probably know where this is headed. We lose all power. The boat’s stereo dies. The AC cuts out and several lights flicker. Then all is silent, like those war movies where the submarine is submerged and everyone is waiting for the depth charges from above, waiting for someone to crack.

“ARRRRGGGGHHH,” John screams. He emerges sopping wet blaming his wife for his predicament of course.

We manage to use a nearby houseboat’s radio, and within the hour Andy the troubleshooting guy comes to the rescue. After reengaging the breaker and admonishing us about running everything at once, Andy guides his boat back into the blackness. You’d think we’d all settle down to a night of blissful sleep.

Think again.

First we have to decide who sleeps where. The penthouse sleeping area goes to their kids. That’s a no brainer because you have to climb a ladder to get to it. And as they will be separated from the adults, their late night chatter will not disturb us. Amy will sleep next to the adults on the sofa that makes into a bed. Call it practical but it’s cramped; there’s no two ways about it. That leaves the two remaining staterooms for the adults. You can hear a mouse’s heartbeat through the common wall. On that note, have a pleasant sleep.

The next day I am reading on the shore when the kids return from beachcombing. The moms are fixing lunch and John is nearby on the houseboat rearranging deck furniture for the 17^th time. I have pure gold in my hands. It’s a copy of W.O. Mitchell’s How I Spent My Summer Holidays. It is wet your pants kind of humour. I decide to read some to the kids. I’m at the funniest part of the book, where Musgrave’s grandpa nearly gets blown up by three sticks of dynamite while he’s sitting in the outhouse. A fencepost would find this funny. So that’s why I’m wondering why John, who is within earshot, has now taken to sweeping off the deck yet again this morning.

“Yep. Hate to see a poorly functioning head,” says Andy on the third day, and he’s not talking about any hangover we might be nursing. You see, we have a flushing problem with the head. The ‘head’ is another one of those nautical terms that we prairie people find confusing. They could call it something familiar to everyone, like the can or the john. But the ‘head’? I don’t want to know how they came up with that part of the anatomy for its name. By the time Andy’s finished installing the new pump, we’ve come to appreciate the man. In spite of his professed humble beginnings, and after facing much adversity along the way, Andy managed to fight the odds, and is now leading an incredibly ordinary life.

As we wave Andy off, I’m beginning to wonder if we should have spent more on a newer, bigger houseboat like the behemoth going past us now. It’s the size of two football fields. This spectacle has more decks than Rob Ford had apologies and it has a tube slide whose top is obscured in the clouds. Through one window on the main deck I see a boardroom and people videoconferencing, and I’m thinking this craft is perfect for those intimate corporate getaways for say, 300 employees. If Noah had rented one of these bad boys, the ship’s manifest would surely not have been limited to two of each species. Our little camper on a barge sways violently in its wake but I’m consoled thinking at least our rental has not cost us the equivalent of the national debt of Albania.

On our final day we are returning to port. The food is spent so we will have lunch after we drop off the boat before driving home. In the meantime, we’ll reminisce over the past four days, make light of the many misadventures. Coffee has finished brewing. That’s when John’s wife announces that after one of Andy’s last visits someone forgot to plug the fridge back in. John always has cream with his coffee and now that cream has gone bad. As the first rumblings begin, the kids scatter and the adults brace themselves. His bellyaching sounds like he’s having his spleen removed by Vlad the Impaler (I’ve never cared for cream in my coffee since).

We are at the dock an hour later and we wearily make our way to the parking lot. John begins loading up his van while we toss stuff in our car. But when we are set to leave, the twenty-year-old starter quits and we are stuck. Despite all that befell us this week, John does something truly amazing. It is Sunday and any mechanic worth his salt is in church or fishing. We’ll have to wait until Monday.

After our week with John, you make a lot of assumptions. But just when you are at the end of the rope and you think the guy doesn’t have a good bone in his body, think again. He checks his watch. He looks back at his van. There’s room to squeeze us in so we can get lunch too, and maybe help us to find a motel before John returns home. He checks the time again and then looks at us. And with a self-assured nod he says, “Can’t help you.”

As he drives away, the town seems to close in on us. We’re six hours away from home and feeling alone. That foreboding feeling returns and I’m back in the principal’s office. As if by some wondrous means, I feel that I can change the course of the future, get out of the present predicament. I only have to fess up to the principal. By making amends, I can right a wrong, and maybe that starter will miraculously work.

“Then you’re here because?” the principal asks.

“Actually sir, I did remove a copy of Boy Enters Manhood and I’ll return it. While I’m at it, I’m returning Girl Enters Womanhood which I apologize in advance for its dog-eared condition.