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,
