Few of the people I know around here pilot boats on the high seas, but if you’ve been out on anything bigger than a gravel pit you ought to know what makes a boat seaworthy.
For instance: Lake St. Clair, where we sail, is very shallow. Which makes it choppy, although you’d have to ask a hydrologist precisely why. I figure it has to do with how water moves when it has nowhere else to go. It’s also busy, which adds to the chop.
Hardly anyone skis on this lake, and even small boats tend to have deep V hulls — Boston Whalers, Sea Rays and the like. When you’re waked by a plutocrat, heedlessly plowing toward lunch at the yacht club in his 40-foot aquatic Bulgemobile, you come to appreciate a low center of gravity. A little junk in the trunk, so to speak.
I thought about this when I read about the deaths of 20 old people in New York, when their sightseeing boat capsized in Lake George. How does this happen? Those boats go out constantly, all summer long. Surely they’ve been waked before; how does a 40-foot boat just tip over, no matter how it’s rocked from side to side? It makes no sense.
I guess it will when the investigation is finished. Until then: Cruel, cruel fate. And a few heroes.
Bloggage: I didn’t follow the Broussard/Russert thing post-Katrina all that closely, other than to note that Russert was a jerk to the end. Read this. I think it sums up the set-to pretty well:
Russert had Broussard on the ropes, but Broussard didn’t get it. None of this ‘Russert’s game, Russert’s rules’ for him. He came out of his corner, jabbing, and he connected with every punch. ‘What kind of sick mind, what kind of black-hearted people want to nitpick a man’s mother’s death?’ Recognize yourself, you prick? ‘That wasn’t a box of Cheerios they buried last week.’ Chew on that, you heartless, coffee-drinking, toilet-equipped bastard.
Beyond the sheer thrill of watching an unranked club fighter pound the hell out of the champion was the meta-drama: Broussard took a factual error and showed it for what it was�not the kind of lie that Administration officials have told without significant challenge on “Meet the Press” for almost five years, but a tiny shard of a larger story that was truthful in every other way.
On the psychological level, what Broussard did was even more astonishing: Just as he did on his first appearance, he jumped into the moment and relived it. Like a flashback. Or, to use a term of art, abreaction. And when he came out of it, he wasn’t dazed and blinking�he was breathing fire at the sick son-of-a-bitch who, with people dead and displaced, would cook up an exercise like this.
Sounds about right.
Also, sisterhood could be more powerful, at the DetNews.