It was a clear, cool day on the waters of Lake Winnepesaukee in New Hampshire, about six years ago. The sun was bright and quite warm for mid-April. Best of all, the ice was out.

You see, my father is a die-hard fisherman who has to be the first one to put his boat in the water. He brags to his friends about the early spring fishing and how his boat is running oh, so great. Well, that all came to an end on this fine day.

He was generous enough to let me drive the 19-foot Starcraft, which I had done many times before. What he was thinking that day, who knows? All I knew was that I was behind the wheel. This was a huge taste of freedom for me. I was 15. If I wasn’t old enough to drive a car, then I’d settle for the boat.

We were headed northeast toward 19-Mile Bay, where we were going for lunch, just my dad and me. What a day!

We entered an area of buoys called the Hurricane. If you’re not familiar with this area, then think of noontime in downtown Bangor, and the cars are the buoys. There’s a slew of them.

My 15-year-old ego took over as I pressed the throttle down. I knew exactly where I was going and nothing was going to stop me. We were only going one speed – fast. There was no time to waste.

The wind was flowing through my hair, and the sun felt great. In fact my father decided to sit back and take a nap as I navigated through the water.

The engine revved and the boat cut through the waves like a hot knife through butter. Broom, Broom, Broom. Crash, Crunch – CACHUNK.

Oh, no. Oh boy, was I in trouble.

The revved-up engine cut out. Suddenly, all that could be heard were the waves sloshing against the side of the boat.

I never knew people could fly. But I discovered they could when my father suddenly seemed to be sitting on my lap. My fingers were melted into the steering wheel, ghostly white in color.

I quickly glanced at my father. His eyes were huge, and his face was turning a shade of purple I had never seen before. The worst part was the fact that he said nothing. At that point, even an uproar of some kind of language would have made me feel better. But he said nothing.

It was obvious that we had hit what I thought was the biggest rock in the lake. But I was determined to try the motor again. I turned the key. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. My dad walked slowly to the back of the boat and pulled up the engine. He expected to find a damaged propeller. What he found instead was nothing – absolutely nothing.

You see, I had done a pretty good job on our 1987, 140 Johnson V.R.O. In fact, I tore the whole lower unit off it, literally. The only part left of that lower unit was a scraggly, black cable, just dangling. The gears were all jammed up in the top half, and the “significant other half” was at the bottom of Lake Winnipesaukee.

After we had been towed back to our dock, my father couldn’t rest. I guess I’m not surprised. If my daughter had ripped off the bottom half of my prized possession, I probably wouldn’t let her into the house. But being the type of man he is, dad went on a mission to get the bottom half of the engine out of the lake.

He called my neighbor, who is a diver, and pleaded his case, making it clear that he was not the one who had been driving. Way to go dad. Make me feel worse than I already did. My neighbor decided he’d go with my dad and retrieve my mishap.

One big hunk of white steel. That was what they brought back to me, placing it in the middle of the living room floor. What was I supposed to say other than “I’m sorry?” I certainly couldn’t fix it.

Within a couple of weeks, the engine was replaced, and over the past six years my father has put the incident in the back of his mind – until I had to call him for some information for this story. I am still permitted to drive the boat.

I’ve also acquired the nickname “Two-Speed” from my dad, meaning that I drive at only two speeds – full throttle and stop. We still have the big hunk of steel in our basement. What a conversation piece. I wonder how it would look as a coffee table, considering my father’s birthday is coming up.