Have I ever told you about the time I took a shower with a priest and a Mormon?
Before anybody calls the bishop, let me explain how I became Bobber. The two stories belong together, although neither provides much evidence that my friends should be allowed to supervise recreational activities.
We were spending a lovely summer’s day on Lake Chetek in Chetek, Wis. BUCA, my best friends, decided they could teach me to water ski, an optimistic assessment of both their teaching skills and my relationship with water and gravity.
Water skiing looks simple from inside the boat. Somebody holds a rope, the boat moves, and the person rises gracefully onto the water. My friends apparently expected me to participate in that last part.
Unfortunately, I concentrate on the first two.
Recommended: The Butt-Ugly Club of America and the Magic We Almost Missed
For about 15 minutes, they dragged me around the lake while I conducted an extensive personal examination of Wisconsin’s freshwater supply. Whatever natural aptitude I possessed remained well below the surface, along with most of me.
My problem is that I have extremely quick reflexes. I’m not trying to brag, but after nearly 20 years of catching, and with a brother, Dean, and Dad, Greg, with equally quick hands, I am blessed with the curse of overcorrecting every time I wobbled and wove unexpectedly.
SPLASH!!
Eventually, the boat swung around to collect its unsuccessful student. One of my friends looked at my head sticking out of the water and asked, “Geez, doesn’t Dave’s head look like a bobber?”
There it was.
A nickname born without paperwork, consultation, or any opportunity to appeal. They’d failed to produce a water skier, but they’d successfully renamed a human being.
I’ve been Bobber ever since. My contribution to the sport was brief; my contribution to their amusement has proved considerably more durable.
At the time, we were having a good day with friends. I doubt any of us stopped to consider how much of that afternoon I’d carry into the rest of my life. I certainly wasn’t floating there thinking, “Someday, I’ll treasure this.”
I was probably more interested in getting back into the boat.
Now that I’ve reached the old-fart portion of the program, I understand what made the day worth keeping. Those were my people, close enough to laugh at, and with me, and certain enough of our friendship that I could laugh, too.
A friend who remembers how you got your nickname also remembers a version of you that fewer people know. Before the jobs, the responsibilities, and everything else that filled the years, he knew the fellow who couldn’t get up on Lake Chetek.
Getting older makes those connections precious. Arranging a visit takes more effort; you see somebody less often than you’d like, then an old story comes up, and for a few minutes the years feel easier to account for.
I wish we appreciated more of those ordinary afternoons while we were living them. We’re so busy looking ahead that we seldom recognize how much happiness we already have within reach. Sometimes it’s sitting in a boat, laughing at your head.
Which brings us back to the shower.
After a day of receiving freshwater enemas, I needed to rinse off. There was an outdoor shower where we could wash away the lake water. My companions included a Mormon and Woody, who would become Father Woodrow, a stupendous priest.
We were wearing our swim trunks, and somewhere in the great wide world of sports, there’s a photograph, and I sincerely hope it survives.
I don’t see Woody nearly often enough. Whenever I do, I like to bring up our shared shower, especially when other people are standing nearby. A priest should always know he can count on an old friend to supply context at the least convenient moment.
He has become Father Woodrow. I remain Bobber.
Between those names lies a friendship and an afternoon I’d happily revisit, even knowing how much lake water I’d have to, um, swallow.
Of all the things my friends tried to give me that day, the skiing lesson was the only one that didn’t last. I still have the nickname, the story, and the pleasure of embarrassing Woody.
This is why I don’t have friends; the ones I do have know that I’m kidding.
