Smitty

Salutations de Montreal.

As you can see, I am quite fluent in Google translator. We just arrived in Montreal after a somewhat harrowing trip from Sorel-Tracy at the top of the Richelieu River and canal system. Actually, the St Lawrence Seaway was completely calm with no traffic. Harrowing makes a better story.

We are becoming facile in the transit of canals, where the boat is raised and lowered by the filling and emptying of enclosures called locks. We are up over 20 locks now, with quite a few to go, the charm lessening with each lock.

Our adventure begins on Lock 12 of the Champlain canal, which connects the Hudson River to Lake Champlain. When we brought the boat into Lock 12, the lockmaster told us that "a pin on the door had broken," which was unsettling, since we didn't fancy plummeting 40 feet with millions of gallons of water chasing us. We waited about 90 minutes and apparently the problem was resolved.

When we left the canal and restarted the engines, a very nasty shuddering vibration shook the boat. Vibrations are generally very bad and expensive. I called a marina/boatyard a few miles ahead, and talked to Lynn, the marina manager, who said he had some diving equipment, but was at his son's graduation. He told us to tie up and wait for him.

When we arrived at the docks, the whole place looked like a set from a 50s melodrama. The buildings and docks were splintered and flaking. Two guys met us on the dock, one who was about 6'2'' and weighed 90 pounds, resembling a praying mantis. The other was a very stout, plethoric dude, 5'8" and 280, who had the rheumy eyes and olfactory introduction suggesting an earnest effort in the marina bar. He introduced himself as Smitty. They tied us up expertly.

The marina manager/diver finally appeared, but since he also functions as the bartender, was unable to help us at the moment. He did say he knew a guy, coincidentally sitting at the bar, who could take a look. Naturally, now a couple more Buds down the road, it was Smitty.

Smitty disappeared, then reappeared wearing a flannel onesie. He strode down the dock, produced a vicious looking knife, then began hacking at the plastic packaging of a children's dive mask. I inquired about tanks, scuba stuff.

"Don't need it," was Smitty's response.

Smitty peeled off the flannel onesie, revealing not a wetsuit but a pair of boxers. He pulled on the dive mask and lowered himself into the 60-degree water. At this point I am wondering, when Smitty has the myocardial infarction of all time, how I will get this nearly round, wet person out of the water.

Smitty took some mighty breaths, then disappeared under the boat. For quite a while. He burst out of the water holding a large bunch of sea grass, which had apparently wound around the prop. He did it twice more, then declared the problem solved. I did a test run up the canal, and the problem was solved.

Greatly relieved, we went to the marina tavern - dive would be charitable -where our marina manager/diver/bartender Lynn announced he was a Manhattan Culinary Institute grad and his chef would fix us dinner.

Of course, the chef was Smitty. The Penne alla Vodka was delicious, and the strip steak with a Burgundy sauce was nuanced and perfectly done.

The next morning, we left at 06:00, having been delayed by sea grass. Smitty was sitting by the dock, relishing a sunrise doobie. He expressed his appreciation for the stout tip we had left.

If there is one lesson we learned in our trip through the Twilight Zone, it is that you never know about a person based on appearances or superficial perceptions. There are so many talented, humble, unassuming people out there, that we must make an extra effort to see them.