It was the Fourth of July, and I had just completed my bareboat certification course. I was eager to demonstrate my vast storehouse of nautical knowledge for my dentist friend who shared my interest in sailing. Alas, at my favorite marina, every thing that would float had already been chartered for the entire weekend. All those stately 32 and 34-footers, on which I had trained and that I had grown to love, would be sailing without me. The story was the same at every boatyard around the lake.
    “Sorry I wish you had called a few weeks ago. You just can’t get a boat on the Fourth of ]uly.”     
     I finally got some good news, though.     
     “I’m glad you called," said the Dutchman. He pronounced it "calt." "I just had a cancellation, and I can put you aboard your old boat. It’ll be a pleasure to have you on one of my boats again. It’s been so long."
    Several years prior, I had cut my skipper’s teeth on a little old 26-footer; and though it lacked the grandeur of the more elegantly appointed yachts to which I had become accustomed, sailing the old boat would be better than not sailing at all.
     I had been extolling the pleasures of standing on the graceful decks of the "big boats” for weeks. And my crew gazed forlornly at the little 26-footer "that could" with its weathered rigging and discolored deck, the fiberglass Band—Aids here and there serving as badges of the little boat’s courage in the face of adversity and nautical ineptitude. She was obviously still seaworthy though, in good repair in spite of having led a hard life.
    “Hey crew, we don’t need a boat that’s the height of fashion. And who needs roller furling? I’ll show you how it’s done without the frills. Climb aboard and let’s have some fun." My pep talk seemed to spread an infectious enthusiasm that got our gear cheerfully on board and drinks iced down, the sail covers and cutoffs stowed and the boat ready for blast-off.
    That was when I remembered that fiend of an outboard motor. I felt its evil presence like a cold, bony hand on my shoulder as I stepped aboard. I had obscured it from my memory like a child shuns thoughts of a bad dream at bedtime, hoping if she fails to think of it, the awful dream will never recur. It was glaring over the gunwale at me malevolently, its frigidly evil grin obscured by the wooden tiller; and I could have sworn I heard the frantic soundtrack from the shower scene in Psycho emanating from somewhere about the stern.
    I had been sailing expensive boats with big diesel engines that sprang to life with the touch of a button and made handling in close quarters a breeze. I had complained about this evil little outboard motor.
     Memories of hours spent becalmed and at its harsh mercy flooded my memory as I recalled pulling the dreaded cord on that infernal machine time and time again in the hot sun till I could have dropped. It hadn’t happened once. It hadn’t even happened twice, but every time I had taken that little boat out, I had endured the showdown with this dastardly contraption. It always won.
    I rubbed my eyes and shook my head trying to convince myself it was all an illusion, if I really was on the Dutchman’s old boat and not a new 34-footer, the little boat had been updated with a shiny new outboard, and that mechanical embodiment of evil was rusting somewhere cold and dark near Davy]ones’ locker. But no, here it was grinning up at me like a demon from hell. Its cover was more dented than I had remembered. Evidently I hadn't been its only victim, for it bore the scars and bruises of a hundred physical assaults from a fleet of stranded would-be sailors.
    I must have turned white, for my crew rushed to my aid. “Are you OK.? Sit down for a while. Maybe it’s the heat. Have something to drink." It was all in vain, for I could only stare dazedly at Satan’s outboard.
    As I think back, I could have easily drooled and babbled in my despairing catatonia.
    "I’m smarter than this machine," I resolved defiantly, coming to my senses. “I can’t let this old thing get the best of me and ruin the holiday for all of us. Why, I could sail this little boat out of its slip without power . . . blindfolded with one hand, if all else failed.”
     I stood and approached the stern casually with the confidence of one who knows how to handle a mere outboard motor, a seasoned sailor accustomed to hardship and mechanical complications.
    I whistled a little tune through parched lips and sidled up beside the beast, and I would have sworn it sensed my insecurity. Like a deadly predator, it could smell fear, and I’m afraid I reeked.
    The crew sat in reverent silence as I began the ceremony by pushing the transmission through its gears. I made sure it was in neutral and pulled out on the choke. I lowered the propeller into the water, gave the bulb on the fuel hose a squeeze that was just right; then I wiped the sweat from my eyes and steeled myself for the inevitable confrontation.
    “You want me to do that?" asked the my dentist friend of many years, sensing my trepidation. He was clearly unaware of the magnitude of evil I faced, oblivious to the folly of his feeble offer.
    "No!" came my determined answer. “This is for me to do. Alone.” Like any skipper worth his salt, I wouldn’t ask my crew to do something I couldn’t face myself. I pulled the cord, and to my utter delight, the Beast began to run—evenly at first. Then, beginning to resist being choked, it wheezed a bit and faltered; and before I could push in the choke, it began to cough and convulse. It did not take kindly to relieving the choke, but refused to breathe without it. The outboard railed against anything I did with the throttle. Blue smoke billowed from green bubbles emanating from its exhaust below the surface, and the Beast grinned up at me silently.
    "Go ahead and hit me," it seemed to say in its obstinate silence. "Insult my mother if you must. You won’t be the first nor the last. Unbolt me from the transom, and send me diving for the bottom. I’ll still be in your nightmares.” I heard it laugh maniacally from the dark recesses of my mind, then all was silent.
    Suddenly it belched blue smoke in my face, the equivalent of spewing green pea soup on The Exorcist. It gave one more convulsive chug before rolling its eyes back in its head and falling unconscious from the effort. I stepped back in alarm, expecting it to spin around and fly through the air.
    Overcoming my dread after a few moments of silent reverie, I approached again. "After all,” I said without conviction, my voice trembling noticeably “It almost started the very first try. Once I get its juices flowing through its little clogged arteries, it’ll probably run just fine."
    After what seemed like a hundred pulls of the cord, each one causing more pain and exhaustion than the last, I relented.  My friend tried his amateur hand at bringing the monster to life. Even though I had a nodding, though less-than-amiable acquaintance with the Beast over the years, and even though my superior training at this task superseded his, I resignedly allowed him a try. At least he would feel like he had participated. Perhaps he would be as sore practicing dentistry tomorrow as I would be filling prescriptions. I smiled at the thought. The evil, it seemed, had become infectious.
    “What does this do?” he asked innocently putting the Beast in gear.
    "Transmission," I said. "That’s reverse, but you need to start it in neut..."
     Starting in the wrong gear, with almost no effort, indeed almost without his having to touch the Beast at all, it started, roared to life, and ran smoothly, just like a real motor. That evil machine was simply trying to make me look bad. The dentist put it in neutral and looked around.
    We were all on our feet cheering like munchkins after the witch was dead. We broke out the cold drinks and toasted our success, refreshing ourselves while the little motor warmed itself up in preparation for backing out of the slip. But I knew the ordeal was only beginning.
    I took my place authoritatively at the helm and ordered the stern lines cast off. Then I directed my loving daughter to cast off the bow lines.
    “The lines stay on the dock,” I yelled over the happy sound of the outboard, which, having been placed expertly in reverse began to back us out of the slip slowly.     

     Very slowly.     

     Too slowly. ‘    
 
     In fact, were we moving at all? Could I be backing into a stiff breeze? I gave the Beast a little more throttle, and it pulled its prop from the water to spit in my face and laugh at me, mocking me from below and spewing blue smoke at me again. I managed to subdue the Beast and stood up in the cockpit, dripping. The crew was silent, apparently afraid I might blow a gasket myself.       
    “Would somebody please cast off that other bowline?” I asked quietly as I regained my seat and my composure. The evil glow in my eyes began to subside only with great effort.
    We backed out without further event. I put the Beast in its forward gear, and it motored us out beyond the no-wake buoys where I headed the little boat into what was almost no wind at all. We raised the main sail which caught a little breeze and gave us that musical little "pop" as it filled and began to propel us forward. We were finally sailing!    
     With mixed emotions, I killed the old outboard, silencing the Demon for what I hoped was not forever and moved forward to supervise the raising of the jib. The thrill of being under sail was beginning to soothe my angst of dealing with the Beast.
    “The first thing out of the bag should be the tack of the jib," I explained to my daughter. Indeed it was, for the person who had stowed the jib before me had done so correctly so as the hooks were pulled from the sail bag, she could attach them sequentially to the headstay.      "First thing you do is hook the tack to the fitting right on the deck at the headstay," I yelled forward to her.     
     "There isn’t one,” came back the answer.     
     “What do you mean? There isn't one what?”
     “THERE IS NO FITTING ON THE DECK AT at the headstay, Dad. It’s gone. The last charter crew must have dropped it overboard.”     
     My face turned red, and I glared at the Beast. Now we have to start it again and go right back to the marina, just to get a fitting. Then when that’s done it’ll be something else just as trivial and just as vital. I was beginning to believe I had died and gone to hell, and my punishment was to spend eternity with this Outboard From Hell.   
     We actually did get to sail that day, after much ado. I had several more altercations with the Beast before we docked, but all things turned out pretty well, considering. Now I just have to deal with the recurring nightmares of outboards that never shut off or shift into gear by themselves to run me into obstacles. I wonder if my friend, the psychologist would like to go sailing this weekend.