After telling Thurston we needed to stop spending money, I happened upon a 22-foot Smoker Craft pontoon on Facebook Marketplace at a great price.

It wouldn’t hurt to go look, would it?

Better take a trailer. Just in case.

Of course, it was exactly what we were looking for. The seller asked Thurston how he was at backing a trailer. No worries. He’s a retired farmer. Backing a trailer is second nature.

After backing down what seemed like a quarter mile of narrow, winding, tree-lined trail, we loaded the pontoon onto our way-too-small trailer.

We pumped up the tires, crossed our fingers and headed down the road. The boat was sitting a little crooked, which actually helped because one of the trailer glides was broken and rubbing against a tire. If we could just make it to our friends’ house across town, we’d call it a win.

We made it.

Yesterday, Thurston rented a much bigger trailer for four hours. Plenty of time to transfer the boat, get it home, unload it into the barn for winter and return the rental.

Shouldn’t it be?

Our carefully devised plan involved taking the pontoon to a nearby lake, launching it, and leaving me with the boat while Thurston exchanged trailers. He’d return, we’d take a little joyride, reload the pontoon onto the safe trailer and haul it home.

All within four hours.

On the way, we were laughing about how much effort it had taken the two of us to formulate this plan. I suggested that perhaps we should consider adding a third person to our relationship.

Not for romance. For additional brainpower.

Thurston had checked out the boat launch beforehand, so we knew it wasn’t far. Unfortunately, the GPS took us to the lake but not the launch. After turning an eight-mile trip into a twenty-minute drive, we headed back the other way.

Our next road was closed. Bridge out.

Forty-five minutes into what should have been a ten-minute trip, we finally arrived, with the questionable trailer tires somehow still intact.

We unloaded the pontoon, and I prepared to wait at the dock. I’d swapped phones with Thurston because mine was nearly dead. Again. As usual.

Almost immediately, another boater needed the ramp, so I decided to motor out a little way and enjoy the beautiful afternoon. Wish I had at least grabbed some sunglasses.

I put the boat in neutral, shut off the motor and even pulled the key to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally run down the battery.

Pretty proud of myself.

Nearly an hour later, I’d drifted considerably farther into the lake. Time to start the motor and head back.

I turned the key.

Nothing.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The fuel gauge moved when I turned the key, so I knew there was some electrical power. Maybe there was a trick to starting it. A button? A special throttle position?

I moved the throttle up and down, searching for that sweet spot.

Nothing.

There I sat, alone in the middle of a good-sized lake, in a 22-foot pontoon. I hadn’t just forgotten to grab my sunglasses; I had no ID, no ownership papers, no proof of insurance, no life jackets and, worst of all, no paddle.

Thank goodness for Thurston’s phone, which still had 25% battery.

He was just pulling into the parking lot when I called him. Thankfully, he had my phone charging in the truck. It took some convincing before he believed I wasn’t joking.

“Let me think, and I’ll call you back.”

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking on our four-hour trailer rental. Sitting in the middle of the lake waiting for someone to rescue me wasn’t going to get that trailer returned on time.

Being the resourceful woman I am, I began searching the boat for something I could use as a paddle.

The only thing I could find was the plastic battery cover.

Basically, a glorified Tupperware lid.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I stretched out on my belly across the front of the pontoon, hung over the edge and started paddling.

Once I got the boat moving, I was afraid to stop and lose my momentum. I could see Thurston standing on the distant dock and one fishing boat on the other side of the lake.

Neither appeared particularly concerned about my situation.

So I paddled.

And paddled.

Occasionally, I’d lift my head to check my progress. I was making headway. At this rate, I figured I’d reach shore by nightfall.

I kept a death grip on that plastic lid. If it slipped out of my hands, I was really going to be in trouble.

After about twenty minutes of paddling, I glanced up to discover the fishermen approaching.

They pulled alongside and looked down at me, lying on my belly like a porpoise, paddling a pontoon with a piece of plastic.

Not a smile. Not a chuckle.

“We can tow you in if you want.”

It took everything I had to keep a straight face.

“Sure. That would be great.”

They towed me to the dock, unhooked and went on their way. Neither one cracked a smile or made a joke about what they’d just witnessed.

I don’t know how they managed it.

Thurston climbed aboard, moved the throttle around, turned the key and the motor fired right up without a hiccup.

Just like that.

Gassed after twenty minutes of paddling a 22-foot pontoon with my glorified Tupperware lid, I was speechless.

Somehow, we still managed to get the pontoon home, unload it and return the trailer at five minutes after six. Since we’d picked it up late, nobody seemed to mind.

What should have been an hour’s job had taken us four. Pretty typical for us.

But at least I had a story.