An Old Hickory Odyssey
There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and that if you put an anarchist, a militant atheist, a left-wing nurse with a mobile petting zoo, and a devout Catholic father of 14 on an 80-foot houseboat, you’re going to need bail money or barbecue. Possibly both.
It was a furnace of a late July morning on Old Hickory Lake, the kind of day when the air feels like someone else’s breath. My wife Sarah—God bless that long-suffering woman—had packed us off with her usual combination of precision, pity, and quiet resignation. After 31 years of marriage, she’d long since not-quite accepted that I was part husband, part chaos agent.
“You and your misfit brigade better not die without bringing my Tupperware back,” she said as she kissed me on the cheek and handed me five coolers—three bursting with prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe, mini beef Wellingtons, bourbon-glazed salmon bites, deviled eggs with truffle oil, and desserts layered like international politics. The other two coolers sloshed with beer, bourbon, and enough mixers to open a bar in Belize.
We were headed out on The Floating Deficit, a Reagan-era 80-foot houseboat docked at Creekwood that belonged to a dentist friend who’d lost a poker game and part of his soul to me. In lieu of cash, he’d agreed to give me usage rights to this floating monument of questionable electrical wiring and faded leather upholstery. The microwave was bigger than most Nashville apartments and the stereo system could rattle your molars. We were gonna have a day.
My companions were a cocktail of ideological tension and bad impulse control.
Dwayne, my longtime buddy and unlicensed philosopher, was a right-wing, deep-state-fearing, sovereign citizen type who refused to use seatbelts and believed the last honest president was Andrew Jackson. He showed up in swim trunks, combat boots, and a T-shirt that said, “THE IRS IS A CULT.” He carried a metal detector, a shovel, and a laminated map of Bledsoe Creek that he insisted proved there was Spanish gold buried there by the Jesuits to fund a globalist coup.
John, a tall, limber Kiwi with the swagger and arm gestures of Jack Sparrow after three glasses of gin, had been raised in Guatemala by anti-Catholic Protestant missionaries. Now, having rejected faith, hope, and possibly hygiene, he was a militant atheist who viewed organized religion, American barbecue, and the electoral college as equally offensive. “The only holy thing in America,” he once said, “is moonshine and unfiltered cigarettes.”
He said this while eating Sarah’s coconut-lime bars, so take that as you will.
Judy, the Seattle nurse, came in with a black Subaru and more bags than passengers. She had three emotionally complex dogs, five cats with unresolved trauma, and an air of cheerful resentment toward men that made me feel like I was starring in an educational documentary. She was kind, sharp, fierce, and the only one brave enough to try Sarah’s ghost pepper hummus. I liked her immediately.
And then there was me. Dad of 11 boys and 3 girls. Husband for three decades to a woman who can cook like an angel but looks at me like I’m a science project she lost funding for. I have friends everywhere.
We left the marina just before 9am, the engines rumbling, Judy’s dogs barking, and John balancing a bottle of Pellegrino like a compass. The cats promptly disappeared into the boat’s mysterious inner chambers. Dwayne had duct-taped his map to the top deck railing and was muttering phrases like “ley lines” and “Spanish ecclesiastical bullion.”
It took a lot more booze than I expected to get to Bledsoe Creek. I started to wonder about the likelihood we’d be back to Creekwood by the time I’d promised.
“This is where the gold is,” Dwayne declared, eyes gleaming. “The Jesuits moved it here in 1792.”
“Jeff,” John said, gesturing like a pirate poet, “This man thinks Catholic monks had gold. I mean, gold. The monks were broke! Have you seen their robes?”
Judy let her dogs pee on a folding chair and rolled her eyes. “If you three start a religious war, I’m jumping ship.”
We should’ve noticed the anchor line drifting.
But Dwayne was underwater, John was pontificating about how everything British was better, Judy was yelling at her dogs, and I was elbows-deep in a tub of bacon-wrapped dates trying to find one I hadn’t touched yet.
The wind had picked up—not much, just a gentle push, like a waiter politely removing your plate before you’re finished. A few ripples lapped against the aluminum hull, nothing dramatic. We were all too full, too smug, or too distracted to care.
Then the boat shifted.
Not much. Just… enough. A small, slow pivot.
John—mid-sentence about American consumerism—paused. “Wasn’t that tree on the other side of us five minutes ago?”
I looked up.
Dwayne popped out of the water like a manic sea otter, spitting out lakewater and fury.
“WE’RE MOVING!” he shrieked. “The boat is drifting—you idiots!”
“Oh,” Judy muttered, just as one of her dogs slid across the deck into a bowl of chilled shrimp.
What had happened—though we didn’t know it yet—was that the anchor had been poorly set. We’d dropped it on what Dwayne had called “sacred Spanish silt,” which apparently had the consistency of pudding. As soon as a wake from a passing wakeboard boat hit us, it had started dragging along the bottom like a drunk uncle pulling a couch.
Within seconds, we were caught in the current.
Then we saw it: the dock—an old, rickety wooden pier used mostly by weekend fishermen and the occasional honeymooning Mennonites—was dead ahead. IYKYK.
“JEFF,” Sarah’s voice rang in my head, “do not destroy anything that’s not yours today.”
Hmm.
I started the old girl up and threw the engine into reverse, but the boat had already developed momentum. The wheel turned like a greasy steering column on a Wal-Mart riding mower. Dwayne was trying to climb up the rear ladder while holding onto his metal detector and what appeared to be half of a cinder block.
“HELP ME,” he screamed. “I’VE GOT PROOF!”
“OF WHAT?”
“I DON’T KNOW YET BUT IT’S HEAVY.”
I grew up on boats and my father was a meticulous captain. I could feel the future happening in slow motion; the momentum, a slight broadside breeze and the odd action of the steering meant it was inevitable.
The port side of the boat sideswiped the dock like a rhinoceros with balance issues. Wooden planks exploded into the air in a surprisingly loud way that sounded like a few M80s. A fishing chair went airborne and landed in the water like a rejected Olympic dive. The houseboat groaned, then spun with a fresh gust of wind, now sideways—and aimed directly at a paddleboat tour group made up entirely of elderly Lutherans wearing matching shirts that said “GRACE OVER FEAR.”
One of them pointed.
Another began to pray audibly.
John screamed, “EVERYONE BRACE FOR IMPACT,” while trying to rescue his now-rehydrated copy of The God Delusion.
Amateurs often fear the assertive use of engine power, but we Friday morning professionals understand that without sufficient power, you can’t steer effectively. I pushed the throttle all the way forward. The engine roared, and for a second—just one shimmering second—it looked like we might pull free. Momentum, breeze, distance and impaired steering were against us. Horsepower, courage and quick-thinking were on our side.
We T-boned the Lutherans.
Trays of potato salad and jello molds flew into the air like shrapnel from a Midwestern picnic. Someone’s walker got tangled in our railing. A woman named Ethel shouted, “NOT AGAIN!” which startled me and interrupted my crisis thinking.
Inside the cabin, a half-full cooler of sangria had fallen over. Judy’s cats—already on edge from the smell of tuna salad and Dwayne’s body odor—went feral. One clawed through a window screen. Another ran up the stairs. The third tried to hide in the microwave.
“MY CATS HAVE PTSD!” Judy cried.
Meanwhile, her dogs had launched themselves onto the Lutheran boat in what can only be described as a canine boarding operation. One peed on a hymnbook. Another stole a bratwurst.
And through it all, the enormous boombox—knocked sideways by the jolt—blared a song none of us had chosen:
“The Final Countdown.”
Because of course it did.
When the smoke cleared—or rather, when the flying coleslaw settled—the boat was somehow… mostly undamaged.
We were wedged halfway through the old dock like a piano through drywall, with shattered planks sticking out at odd angles and one brave lawn chair still clinging to life, teetering off the bow like it had survived Normandy. Dwayne was lying face down on the deck in a puddle of potato salad, whispering something about “black ops scuba divers” and “Jesuit entanglement protocols.”
The Lutherans had not taken the collision well—but they were organized.
In a stunning display of aquatic efficiency, they’d lashed their tour paddleboat to ours with actual bungee cords and a set of 1980s jumper cables. Their plan? Board us. Take back their dogs. Reclaim their dignity.
A silver-haired, broad shouldered woman named Ethel climbed aboard and shouted, “EXODUS 22:4—‘If the thief is caught, he must pay back double!’”
“They’re not stolen!” Judy shouted, cradling her damp Pomeranian like a mother during the Blitz. “They’re just… emotionally overwhelmed!”
“THEY ATE OUR GELATIN SALAD!”
“Your cats did that,” said John, still struggling to get marshmallow fluff out of his chest hair. “Also, if one more person quotes Scripture at me, I’m defecting to Canada.”
But I didn’t have time to mediate an interdenominational hostage negotiation.
Because we were moving again.
And not in a good way.
The wind had shifted—just a few knots stronger, enough to give the entire houseboat a sinister tilt toward the dark, uninhabited southern shoreline.
Mount Juliet.
Nobody goes over there on purpose.
That side of Old Hickory is all sunken stumps, twisted coves, and rumors of half-buried jet skis and raccoons that drink gasoline. It’s the place houseboats go to die.
And now the wind wanted to take us there.
“UNLASH US!” I screamed at the heretical Lutherans. “I CAN’T MANEUVER!”
But they held fast. “Not until we get our schnauzer!”
I gripped the steering wheel, cranked it hard—and felt resistance.
Heavy resistance.
Like something was wrapped around the outboards.
I throttled gently forward. Nothing but a weird vibration and whine that reminded me of that time in Panama.
Backed off. The wheel jerked. The boat spun in place.
The dock groaned like a dying walrus.
Something was very, very wrong.
“Dwayne!” I yelled. “Did you leave your conspiracy gear hanging off the back of the boat?!”
He looked up, dazed. “If by gear you mean the sacred relic net I made from recycled seatbelts and bailing wire—then yes.”
“You’ve fouled the props!”
“IT’S A DRAG NET FOR HISTORICAL ARTIFACTS, JEFF.”
“It’s going to drag us to our DOOM!”
“Better than paying taxes!”
Meanwhile, John had gotten his hands on an oar and was trying to manually paddle us away from the Lutheran flotilla, which was now singing “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” as they formed a human chain across the deck to rescue the remaining schnauzer.
Judy’s cats, utterly fed up, had retreated to the captain’s bunk and were holding the door shut with their bodies.
The boat groaned again. The stern listed. A bottle of bourbon rolled off a countertop and exploded like a firework against the floor. One of the Lutherans screamed. Dwayne wept.
I did the only thing I could do.
I threw the throttle full forward, cranked the wheel hard one way, then the other, and prayed to every saint I could think of.
There was a shudder.
A snap.
And suddenly, we broke free—ripping through the last of the dock like a tugboat through a picket fence, sending a volley of wood, water, and pudding across the lake. It felt great, like America.
The Lutherans howled in protest as we tore away from their lines, one of their hats sailing into the breeze like a doomed Frisbee.
And then… silence.
Just the motor humming. The cats hissing. The unique smell of canine diarrhea. And me, gripping the wheel, alive, triumphant, and somehow more exhausted than after my tenth child was born.
Just as the chaos finally settled into an exhausted silence—dogs panting, cats glaring, Lutherans receding behind us like the ghost of Sunday School past—my phone buzzed.
It was Sarah.
“How’s it going? Everyone alive? Please remember:
Don’t sink anything.
Don’t fight with protestants, Democrats, or women.
Bring back the good Tupperware.”
I stared at the message for a long moment, thumbs frozen, heart heavy.
I squinted at Dwayne—still mumbling about underwater drones—and then at John, who was laying on a beanbag chair with a compress of smoked gouda on his forehead. Judy was gently rocking back and forth, whispering to her schnauzer like it had been to war.
The top deck was littered with broken deck chairs, wine-soaked hymnals, and half a Lutheran necktie. The cats had barricaded themselves inside the bathroom. The stereo, inexplicably, was now playing Kenny G.
I texted back:
“It’s been amazing.”
There was no reply.
By the time we limped into that Hendersonville marina where they have an exaggerated sense of self importance, the sun was sagging low and so were our spirits.
The Floating Deficit was groaning like a funeral barge. The starboard side had a chunk of dock still wedged in it, the railings were bent at angles no architect would approve of, and the anchor line was tangled in something we suspected was either a shopping cart or part of Dwayne’s soul.
A lone duck was standing on the roof, silently judging us.
And then there was Sarah.
Arms folded. Feet planted. Wearing her oversized sunglasses, a modest top and ankle-length skirt. She didn’t wave. She didn’t smile. She just watched, as if trying to decide whether to greet us or call the police.
As we floated closer, the bow thudded softly against the dock—well, against what remained of the dock. A splintered 2×4 fluttered into the water like a white flag. I was proud of how I’d nustled the old girl into her berth.
Sarah must have been in awe at my seamanship because she was speechless.
I stepped off the boat like a man returning from a failed moon landing.
“Hi,” I said.
She raised one eyebrow. “Why is the boat smoking?”
“That’s… technically steam. From the sangria cooler.”
She glanced behind me.
“Is that a cat stuck in the ceiling vent?”
“Yes.”
“Is that man wearing a Lutheran vest and holding a hotdog?”
John waved weakly from the upper deck. “Your husband is a menace.”
“Get in line,” she said.
Judy followed me off next, barefoot, mascara smeared like war paint, carrying two leashless dogs and muttering, “Never again. Not even with lobster.”
Dwayne came last, dragging a coil of rope, a shattered cooler lid, and what looked like a bent tent pole he claimed was “probably part of a Spanish halberd.”
Sarah stared at the crew for a full ten seconds.
Then she asked, “Did you at least bring back the good cooler?”
I opened the lid of the surviving Igloo.
Inside floated two pickles, a bottle of peach schnapps, and a fork.
“No,” I said.
She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Probably praying. Possibly plotting.
Then she walked past me, boarded the boat, and began picking up deviled egg wrappers with the precision of a military bomb tech.
“I’m going to need bleach,” she murmured.
I stood there on the dock, sunburned, shamefaced, grateful.
Some men get thunderous applause when they return from battle.
I got a Ziploc bag of wet almonds and a sideways look from my wife that said: You’re lucky I like your friends.
And that’s when I realized: I hadn’t just survived the chaos.
I’d been cleansed by it.
Baptized in pudding and dog hair.
Sanctified by the judgment of Sarah.
Anointed by the sacred aloe she tossed at me with sniper precision five minutes later.