If I’d wanted my boat fixed, maybe I shouldn’t have gone to a car mechanic. How was I supposed to know that I would be turned away? After all, a boat is just a car of the sea, isn’t it? But when I pulled my boat in for repairs, the mechanic didn’t seem too pleased to see me.
He shook his head and said, “No, Mr. Reynold, we can’t fix your boat here. Why don’t you go and find the best boat mechanic around? We do not fix boats.”
“All right,” I said, “you don’t want to fix boats, but could you fix boats if you wanted to?”
“No,” said the mechanic. “I could not fix them, not even if I wanted to. I do not know how. If you have trouble with a regular, real car, come and see me. Not a bicycle, nor a tricycle, not a plane or a helicopter, and certainly not a boat.”
“What if I gave you lots of money?” I asked. “My boat really needs fixing, and I want you to do it. If not you, then where around Melbourne can I get outboard servicing?”
“Outboard what?” the mechanic said. “I don’t know the first thing about boats. I’d be more likely to break it than fix it.”
“Well you can’t be a very good marine mechanic, then,” I said.
“I’m not a marine mechanic.”
I’d just about had enough of his nonsense. If he couldn’t fix my boat, I would find somebody who could. Someone who appreciated the art of boating, and understood that a boat was nothing more than a car on the water.
In the end I did find one, but my encounter at the so-called regular car mechanic remained deep in my mind. Are a car and a boat really that different? They take us from place to place, and it is simply the thing they travel over that is unique. Perhaps I should try taking my car to a marine mechanic and see what happens then.