After learning the hard way about ocean tides, currents and the tricks they can play on an unsuspecting 10-year-old and his inflatable raft, the author wisely chose to ride the waves in shallower water closer to shore.

It’s said that time and tide wait for no man – the phrase was coined back when “man” collectively referred to everyone – but I’m here to tell you that not only do tides not wait for anyone, they also do not change course or strength even in the face of the most desperate pleas.

No, I’m not a scientist or ranking member of the Oceanographic Institution down there on the Cape, although I’m sure it would be quite interesting to learn all kinds of neat things about oceans – besides, that is, the most important thing about oceans, which I learned in a mere couple of hours one August afternoon many years ago.

It’s a story firmly planted in family lore, one that was initially told accompanied by shudders of leftover anxiety about “what could have been,” then over time, retold again and again, eliciting gasps of disbelief that gradually morphed into laughs, the heartiest of which seemed to erupt when I was present.

Still today I laugh inside at the sight of kids clambering aboard an inflatable raft and paddling their way out toward the next sizeable wave in hopes of getting to it before it breaks, then issuing a shrill scream when it breaks and capsizes their raft.

But the adventure I (fairly sheepishly, you’ll see why) write about today had almost nothing to do with waves, but everything to do with ocean tides and currents – and one kid’s wild imagination.

Dean Shalhoup

Longtime reporter, columnist and photographer, is back doing what he does best ñ chronicling the people and history of Nashua. Reaching 40 years with The Telegraph in September, Deanís insights have a large, appreciative following.

That kid would be a 10-year-old version of yours truly, who continues still today the summertime ritual of basking in the sun and sand and cavorting, albeit a tad slower, in the surf of Wells Beach, Maine.

Today that old canvas raft is but a distant memory, unlike the episode in which it was a co-conspirator some five and a half decades ago. Now we come to the “sheepish” part.

Having some familiarity with outboard motors – the old wooden boat at the lakefront camp we had years ago had something like a 3 horsepower Elgin on it – I figured, in my kid mind, that if that Elgin could push that impossibly heavy boat around the lake, imagine how fast even a smaller motor could push my raft through the Wells Beach surf!

Feel free to laugh. Because if you haven’t yet, you will when I tell you how I “solved” my obvious problem: finding a “motor” for my raft.

I meandered around the little beachfront cottage, the one we rented each August for years from the late Frank Nutting, the fire chief and longtime selectman in Hudson who also owned the slightly larger cottage next door.

Not surprisingly, nothing that could be modified into a tiny outboard motor caught my eye. Ready to give up, I cut through the kitchen on my way out and happened to spot the electric mixer on the counter.

Hmmm, I mused, those two things that spin, they make what looks like a propeller’s wake, my kid logic told me. But I’d need an extension cord at least 500 yards long. Foiled again.

Wait. I remembered seeing in a drawer something that has two spinning parts, sort of like the mixer, only smaller. You crank the handle and they spin. Voila! Twin outboards!

To the surf I raced, the raft bouncing behind me. The tide was going out, I knew that much. What I didn’t know was that for some reason, the current was flowing significantly faster than normal. And the fact the tide had just begun going out created an illusion of relative calm, something that was lost on a kid eager to “launch” his ingeniously “motorized” raft.

As I recall, the waves were rather puny, likely because the tide was receding. But beware the handshake the hides the snake, as they say.

Kneeling back-to on the raft, I immersed the “motor” and began cranking. To my delight, not to mention my utter amazement, we started moving.

I cranked faster. The raft went faster. Convinced I’d discovered a previously unknown feature of the common household egg-beater, I was having a grand old time.

So preoccupied was I, however, that when I finally looked around to get my bearings, everything seemed farther away than normal; the people were smaller.

OK, time to turn this baby around and head in.

Using my arm as a rudder, I spun the raft 180 degrees and commenced cranking the “motor” with vigor. But the raft didn’t budge. And within a few seconds, it was going backward, faster and faster.

Well, guess my “motor” only worked in one direction. No matter, my focus was on stopping and turning back around. The current was moving swiftly, but the water was unusually clear and I could easily see bottom.

Relieved, all I had to do was slide off the raft and walk it in to shore. I extended one leg farther down than the other to gain a few extra inches.

My foot never touched bottom.

At once surprised and alarmed – the water looked neck-deep, at worst – I tried again. Nothing but water.

A third try, with both feet, thinking maybe I could grab onto a rock as I floated by.

No dice.

Plan C: climb back onto the raft, try not to panic, and start hollering for help.

The crowd of beachgoers had thinned considerably, lowering my odds of getting someone’s attention. Trying not to panic wasn’t easy. Visions of England danced in my mind (my grandmother used to say that if you go far enough out in the ocean, you’ll end up in England).

Would a boater find me? Would I be shark bait? What if the raft deflated? I was a pretty good swimmer for a kid, but wasn’t ready to take on the Atlantic.

Finally, approaching full-panic mode, I took a deep breath and wailed “help” at the top of my lungs.

“OK, hold on,” someone said. I turned to see two boys, of high school, maybe college age, about 20 yards away swmming toward me.

They told me to lie flat on the raft, positioned themselves at one end and started kicking against the current. As I recovered from blubbering-mess status, I’m sure I thanked them repeatedly; at least I hope I did.

By then the commotion had caught the attention of some of the remaining folks on shore. I recall them staring out at us, then going back to what they were doing after realizing everything was under control.

I also recall the boys laughing at one point; I bet they caught a glimpse of my “motor.”

After what seemed like forever, the boys helped me off the raft into knee-deep water, told me to be careful next time and went on their way.

As I began the trek toward the cottage, I looked up to see one of those onlookers striding toward me. It was Mom; she happened to catch the final leg of my journey back to land.

“What happened?” she said, or something like that. I knew her next question would have to do with my “motor.”

She told me years later the inner laughter she successfully hid from me helped mitigate the anxiety that struck when she looked out and saw me being rescued.

In the 55 years since my adventure, I’ve been able to trade up from my raft to a 12-foot Pungo, a decidedly safer, more enjoyable ride, even without a motor – be it gas, electric or manual crank.

Dean Shalhoup’s column appears weekly in The Sunday Telegraph. He may be reached at 594-1256 or dshalhoup@nashuatelegraph.com.

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