It’s just that when I called Port of Friday Harbor a few weeks ago and made a reservation that began this day, Wednesday, August 8, I explained (carefully) that while we are forty-four feet and three-inches “tip to tip,” access to our boat is at the swim step. You know, the last two feet of forty-four feet.

We. Have. To. Have. Room. Inside. The. Slip. To. Step. Off. The. Swim. Step.

It’s just that we don’t. We are in slip G-11 which is a 40’ slip which means our bow hangs over the dock and our “have to get off it” swim-step hangs two feet outside the slip over water.

“We allow four feet of hangover,” says Port of Friday Harbor. “Might be a larger slip tomorrow if you’d like to check.”

I will spare the reader all the reasons why it required calm Dave to come up with the only answer to this problem (the less than fun vertical stair that hooks at the midship door) while 82° heat and frustration kept his wife believing she shouldn’t have to accept this situation. She did finally hang a PFD over the bowsprit to spare G-dock walkers from being bonked in the head. She accessed the dock via the vertical stair (The president isn’t the only First-person who can speak personal Third-person when it serves well).

But here’s the fun docking story:

A little wind, a little current, and a little worried guy on the 37’ Bayliner with whom we share the slip. He looked concerned as I approached and was at the ready with his boat pole when he saw a woman aiming her boat at him (well, I had to aim at him to avoid him. Wind and current were happily pushing me away from him.)

I am happy to report that my apprehending the slip, once I corrected my approach out in the channel, was perfect. Only, worried guy thought it advisable to assist me. He catapulted his boat pole across the two feet of space between our vessels, hooked it on my starboard rail intending, I suppose, to push against my 23,000 pounds with a puny shove from a unstable situation.  

However . . . I, rather than he, was in charge of my placement (which was right where it should be) and PineAweigh, obedient to my commands and not at all willing to respond to a stranger’s interference, carried the well-hooked pole with her as she moved into the slip, surprising the worried man who found himself being pulled forward. Wisely, rather than following his pole over the side of his boat, he loosened his grip and fell without dignity, I was told, to the floor of his own cockpit. His portside drapes closed shortly after that. At some point, his dangling pole was returned to him. I wasn’t in on that story. I was busy being Totally. Frustrated. by slip G-11 that reminds me of a glass slipper with sassy step-sister’s foot in it. David, however, was a Prince.