Fourth of July weekend on OHL was supposed to be a chill time.
I imagined grilled hot dogs. Maybe a little sunburn. A firework or two.
Instead, I got a full-blown, storm-soaked, gospel-tract-slinging showdown between God’s judgment and my houseboat… which, by the way, exploded.
But let’s back up.
We were hosting the wife’s family for the holiday. That’s right: the in-laws. Not just any in-laws—Independent Fundamentalist Baptists from Portland, the kind who believe drums are demonic, laughter is a slippery slope to dancing, and anyone who’s ever seen a PG-13 movie is probably already halfway to hell.
They don’t drink. They don’t swim. They don’t play cards.
They refer to “The Star-Spangled Banner” as a little too jazzy.
So naturally, I did what any reasonable son-in-law would do:
I packed a flask of good bourbon and kept it in my back pocket.
It wasn’t a full rebellion. Just a quiet act of survival.
We set sail Friday morning from Hvily aboard The Liberty Tub, a 40-foot houseboat with soft floors, a questionable propane system, and a broken speaker that only plays Alan Jackson (which, to me, is a feature).
The crew:
- Brother Carl, my father-in-law, who believes the Beatles triggered the End Times.
- Aunt Ruth, a severe woman who thinks ranch dressing is too spicy.
- Uncle Eldon, who calls Sprite “the drink of compromise.”
- Buttons, our autistic tabby cat, who hates thunder and the color orange.
- Marvin, our blind dog, who navigates via smell and barks at shadows, furniture, and boats that aren’t there.
The first few hours were quiet—mostly. I had to shut off the Bluetooth speaker after Brother Carl caught me playing John Denver and said,
“We will not honor false prophets with steel-stringed devil tunes.”
Fine.
I snuck off to the back of the boat, “to check the generator,” and took a deep, holy sip of that fine, amber Kentucky rebellion.
That became the rhythm of the day. I’d stir the potato salad, accept a tract about “The Dangers of Clapping in Church,” nod politely, then excuse myself “to check the anchor,” and knock back another quiet hit of bourbon while Buttons stared at me like he knew I was sinning and wasn’t mad—just disappointed.
And then, just as Marvin was trying to mount a deck chair he thought was a squirrel… the clouds rolled in.
The sky turned black. Thunder cracked like the Lord Himself had entered the group chat. Wind hit us like a Baptist sermon on bikini season. Aunt Ruth clutched her pearls. Uncle Eldon shouted,
“It’s a sign! We brought worldly snacks!”
Then, the storm hit—and so did the propane leak.
Here’s what we think happened:
- Someone (likely me) may have left a gas knob slightly open on the ancient galley stove.
- Buttons, terrified of thunder, launched himself into the pilot console.
- His fluffy backside landed directly on the ignition switch.
BOOM.
A controlled fireball shot out of the galley like it was auditioning for a Michael Bay movie. The access panel blew off, landing in the lake like a flaming Frisbee of doom. Smoke billowed. The cat yowled. Marvin pooped.
Brother Carl shouted,
“IT’S THE WRATH OF GOD!”
I whispered, “It’s mostly my fault, but also Buttons.”
Somehow, the fire fizzled. No one was hurt. Buttons was covered in soot and attitude. Marvin trotted around like he’d saved us all. And me?
I retrieved that bourbon flask, held it high, and toasted quietly to Old Glory, propane safety, and the resilience of indoor cats.
That night, as we all sat on the soggy deck eating rain-drenched baked beans and humming God Bless America (at half-volume so no one danced), I realized something important:
If you ever find yourself trapped on a houseboat during a lightning storm with fundamentalist in-laws, a blind dog, a neurotic cat, and a propane leak—a little bourbon in your pocket can go a long, long way.
Moral of the story:
- Respect your elders.
- Don’t mess with propane.
- And always bring backup bourbon. Even if you have to sanctify it first.