Many have been the times when I gazed with, let’s admit it, a bit of envy and resentment down the fairway at some jackass in one of those “other” boats, under power, all gleaming and shiny with broad ass, swim platform and dual helm effortlessly backing straight down the middle of the fairway with one finger on the helm. You see, those boats have spade rudders which allow such precision and control in reverse like popping an eight ball with a clean snap into a side pocket and the cue left there smugly spinning. No, that boat was not for I. You all know the blather. I had to get a mighty vessel with a canoe stern and a skeg-hung rudder that could fend off shipping containers, submarine scopes and the bulbous metal helmets of ancient deep sea divers left drifting upon the tides. What was to do? Well, I schemed and I calculated, connived, negotiated with me woman and pulled that lever on my one-armed-bandit credit card-Ding! Ding! Ding! A feathering prop was my answer. Why five minutes on the phone with the retail outfit had me, the self-esteemed skeptic, convinced this five-thousand-dollar outlay would dramatically improve my whole outlook as well as my reverse performance and there would I be, ribbons of fine tobacco smoke twisting languidly upwards from my meerschaum, silly white cap and double breasted pea coat with gold bands around the sleeves, toss in a parrot on me shoulder and two or three young ladies naked as the day toasting florescent aperitifs in silly glasses right there in me cockpit whilst with index upon the wheel, my vessel did glide straight as an arrow right down the center of the fairway. And so, with this idiotic vision in mind, I did pursue the project. My diver fellow assured me he could obtain one at a reduced rate and could install it right there at the dock—no haul out necessary. Everything looked golden. In fact when that impressively sold piece of bronze kit arrived straight from Italy, it did have a golden and finely engineered appearance like an object more suited for worship rather than use. Well let’s cut to the chase. We all know the arch of these tragically flawed aspirational endeavors. The damn thing did not fit. The hub was too long so there was not enough space between the hub and the strut, not even with the ridiculously overpriced line cutter removed. So, my diver, good fellow that he was, took it back. No charge. And that’s when the cogs in my clock tower started turning. My brilliantly salty racing champion pal began relentlessly spewing admonishment, disappointment and calumny upon me for abandoning the feathering fantasy and leaving behind the possibility of that .5-.75 knot gain that the new prop would give me. He cajoled and wheedled, contrived and construed until he had me absolutely convinced that hauling the boat and installing the new longer shaft that the new prop would require was a valid, worthy and reasonable pursuit. And so it happened. Thank the Gods for Jorge in the yard whose precise measurements made the fit. The new shaft was slightly longer, and of course I had to have the cutlass bearing replaced and, oh yes, a new PSS shaft seal, oh, and a new coupler. It was a bit of a project but the day finally did dawn when we re-launched and retuning along the estuary came the critical moment of impeding triumph when I reduced speed, put it in neutral, waited for it to glide to a halt and then made the tremulous clunk at the lever to shift that puppy into its first test in reverse. Yes there I was with lips slightly parted brows knit and a despair dark as Erebus in my eyes as my boat, despite all attempts at control and correction, did donuts in reverse in the estuary. Ok, let’s try to look on the bright side. I do get the speed gain, important for cruising. Cutlass bearing replaced. Replacement of old pitted shaft and addition of new PSS shaft seal eliminated misting underneath the engine. New coupling meant that shaft could now be removed aft as well as forward into the cabin; whereas, the old coupling was sealed on and shaft could only be removed through the cabin. These were the thoughts I attempted to use to salve my soul. In reality this great investment taught me a couple of lessons: one, I had suffered a costly delusion once again; two, some boats just don’t back up. And there you have it. Some grand dame walking a wobbling aging asthmatic pug along the quay did that morning look up when she suddenly heard a prolonged and maniacal scream emanating from upon the waters, the scream, possibly from a fool, who from his money had thus been parted.