I’ve written about blue moons before and explained that, in common parlance, the term is meant to apply to the second full moon in a month: a somewhat rare occurrence. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. According to both Wikipedia and SkyandTelescope.com, the term originally meant the third of four moons in a season. Why is that unusual? Most seasons of most years have only three full moons. Whichever definition you apply has some accompanying issues. So why not apply both? (See http://www.skyandtelescope.com/observing/objects/moon/3304131.html for more details.)
I’m telling you this because those of us living in the north country experienced our own blue moon on Friday night. In celebration of that somewhat rare occurrence, my wife had an idea.
“Let’s take the boat out for a ride to the Island Lake Inn.”
We don’t live on Island Lake. We live a mile and a half below the Island Lake dam on the Cloquet River. To take a boat trip to the aforementioned local tavern and restaurant, we have to hitch up our trailer and boat to the Pacifica, drive ten minutes or so to the public landing, and launch the boat. I was tired from a day at the courthouse but, knowing it was going to be a blue moon evening, I agreed to Rene’s suggestion.
Jack, our fourteen year old son, wasn’t all that enthusiastic. In fact, he objected until we were across the big water and slowly negotiating the shallow channel that runs through big Norway and white pines along the north shore of the lake. It was a calm, peaceful night with no bugs and few competing boaters as the old Force 35hp two-stroke pushed us towards the tavern. Don’t get the idea that we motored in luxury: Our fishing boat, while it does have cushioned seats and a steering console, is over twenty years old. So is the motor. But the Force is generally liable. Remember that adjective.
It took quite a while to get our food. Jack and Rene’ shared an enormous pepperoni pizza. I had a cheese burger and a couple of draft beers. The place was packed. It was anything but a quiet night out in a sleepy country bar. Just as I was paying the bill, a guy wandered in and started setting up amps and cords and a music stand. As we were leaving, the guy (dressed in a leather vest and a black cowboy hat) began picking on his six string acoustic, signing a countrified version of an old Bob Seger tune in a tentative, slightly off-key voice.
Give the man credit, I thought as I walked behind my wife and son.
“He’s doing what I do when I’m sitting in a book stores signing books, ” I said as we walked through the gravel parking lot.
“There’s the moon,” my wife commented, ignoring my reference to my stagnant authorial career. “It’s a blue moon.”
“I forgot it was a full moon,” I said as we followed the slope of the land towards the water.
It took only a few minutes to get the Force fired up and the boat underway. We passed one boat in the narrow cattail lined channel sneaking behind half million dollar homes lining the lake shore. It was a big pontoon boat filled with revelers on their way to more beer: there wasn’t more than a foot of space between the boats as we went our separate ways. Free of the shallows, I opened up the throttle on the ancient outboard.
“Weeds,” I said, looking at the GPS speedometer. We were stuck at 13 miles per hour, about six miles per hour slower than true cruising speed. “Must have weeds wrapped around the prop.”
My mind urged me to stop the boat, tilt the motor up, and remove the weeds. But my heart: My heart told me to keep going under the brilliant iridescent night sky, the yellow circle of Earth’s one natural satellite lighting the way across velvety water.
Half way across the main lake, the engine coughed and came to a stop.
“Out of gas,” I explained.
I didn’t study the faces of my wife and son who, at least by the tone of their conversation, weren’t put out by our brief delay. I poured gas from the spare can into the tank. With a half tank of gas for the big motor, we were good to go. I sat behind the wheel and fired up the Force. The engine responded as if new. We were soon flying across the flat, dark water with vigor. Then motor coughed again, shut down completely, and refused to start.
“I’ll have to use the trolling motor,” I said apologetically.
My passengers finally voiced concern.
“You got enough gas to get us all the way in?” Jack asked.
I opened the cap to the little two horse Honda’s fuel tank, dipped a finger in, and found that there was about 1/3 of a tank of gas.
“Plenty,” I lied.
We took one wrong turn as the Honda putt putted towards shore.
“I could swear there used to be a streetlight marking the boat launch,” I said as we loaded the boat back on the trailer.
My passengers said nothing as the Pacifica pulled away from the landing, our old boat and its inert motor in tow as the blue moon cast amber light on other motorboats racing across the lake.
Peace.
Mark
