This is a long story — ramblings about a life lesson learned. Kudos if you stay to the end.
In May of 2018, Maria, Crewy, and I went to rural northern Virginia (called the “Northern Neck”) to look at a boat. We drove 10 hours straight to get there. Crewy handled it beautifully, except for pouting when I told him he couldn’t drive.
We had reserved a room at the only motel within miles of the marina, in a small town called Callao. When we arrived, the nice lady at the check-in counter said there was no reservation, but there was one room left. I said I had spoken to a guy named Mike. “Yeah, no doubt,” she said with a resigned smile. “He’s my partner.” As I filled out the paperwork she walked to the window and switched a switch on the “Vacancy” sign. The word “No” flashed a different color in front of “Vacancy”.
There was a hand-written sign on the counter: “No Hair Dye In The Rooms.” I had to know. “Right after we got done renovating,” the nice lady told me, “our very first guest from out of town dyed her hair in the sink. I don’t know how she did it, but it got all over the walls, carpet, tiles, and ceiling. Hundreds of little spots. We had to take her to court. We’re still waiting for the money.”
The owner handed me a key on a piece of plastic with a “12” Sharpied on it and told us room 12 was down that way, around the corner. In response to my question, she said the best food in the area was the Tastee Freeze, right next door. They had good chicken sammiches.
When we got inside room 12, we were impressed with how CLEAN it was. This little place will never be confused with a Marriott, but the big chains tend to lack the personal touches that this place has in spades.
The downside? Paper-thin walls. We could clearly hear the conversation in room 11, and some of the conversation in room 10. The fire alarm was chirping, complaining that the battery was about to die. I pulled the battery and hoped that tonight was not the night the motel might burn.
We ate at the Tastee Freeze. Good burgers! Eventually either Maria or I asked the question, “Why not the chicken sammich?” Shrugs. One thing I do know: Never order unsweetened iced tea south of the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s “Sweet Tea” or nothing. Maria found out it’s not “pop” either. The waitress just stared at her. It’s Coke. Or, to a lesser extent, soda.
Back at the room, we streamed some Netflix until eleven or so when the people next door settled down. Just as we were drifting off to sleep the volunteer fire company across the street made itself known. It was one of the loudest sirens I have ever heard. All we could do was laugh.
The next morning we headed to the marina, talking about how friendly everyone was so far. Everyone seemed to have a smile and a minute or two for some conversation and friendly down-home advice. When we got to the marina we were blown away by the hospitality. The broker opened the boat, took a step back, motioned us onto the boat, and said, “Take all the time you need and come on up to the office if you have any questions.”
The boat is mechanically sound, but needs a whole lot of cleaning, followed by more cleaning. The elderly couple that own her haven’t had her out of the dock in two years, and his eyesight has failed. A sad ending for their boating life, but a new beginning for the boat.
We walked down five docks to an identical boat, where Dan, its owner, was cleaning. He and I hit it off because of the common interests that bring boaters together. He offered to have a look at our prospect and compare it to his boat, which was in much better condition. Maria spent similar time with Dan’s wife.
Dan said the boat we’re looking at is not worth anything close to the asking price. I said he was correct. My rule has always been to offer two-thirds of asking and come up to about 70%.
Three hours later we presented an offer. The broker said he had to get in his truck and drive to hand-deliver the paperwork to the seller. He suggested we get some lunch in the meantime.
Everyone we spoke with recommended the Tire Store. There were other restaurants, but they all said the Tire Store was the best. A strange name for a restaurant.
I googled “Tire Store Restaurant near me,” and all that came up was Baughn Tire and Automotive.
Sure enough, it was a tire store. Locally owned and operated, with a small cafe occupying one corner of the building. As we made Crewy comfortable, tied in the shade to a tree near the car with his food & water, Maria said she was going to have the Bar-B-Cue Rims. I said the huge black doughnuts were probably too much to eat. Tire store restaurant jokes.
As we approached the corner entrance, the aromas wafting from that part of the parking lot were out of this world! (And they did not include burnt tire, although the staccato pulses of the impact wrenches were constant reminders that this was no … ahem … Michelin-rated restaurant.)
It was the very best burger I have ever had! When I complimented the cook, who was also the cashier, she said it was local grass-fed beef, and the cherrywood bacon came from Smithfield’s, which was “just up the road”. (Yes. THAT Smithfield!)
When we got back to the marina the broker said the seller had refused our offer and countered with a price that happened to be exactly what we wanted to pay — which was 70% of the asking price. We initialed the contract and shook hands. I wrote a check for a good-faith deposit, and the deal was done. We talked about some details. Maria went to the car to water & walk Crewy, and I took a walk around the beautiful marina to snap some photos.
Just as I got back in the car to drive back to Buffalo the phone rang. It was the broker. “I don’t know how to say this, but the seller changed his mind. After two years on the market he decided he doesn’t want to sell the boat.” Zenith to Nadir in less than 30 minutes. The seller was on his way to the marina to explain.
When the elderly man arrived, assisted by his wife, we met the first unfriendly people we encountered since we left Buffalo. The wife said curtly, “We have our reasons for not selling.” None were forthcoming, however.
I tried to talk to the man, but he was having none of it: “We had a deal!” said I.
“Get a lawyer,” said he. He couldn’t or wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Southern Gentlemen are supposed to be men of their word. You, sir, are no Southern Gentleman,” I stammered.
“You’ll get over it,” he countered.
Maria walked to the car to avoid launching on the couple. After a few seconds of me shaking my head and muttering, the man and his wife walked away without a word, down the dock to their boat.
The broker, the marina owner, and the marina owner’s wife all tried to find words, but there were none. I could tell they were as hurt as Maria and I. “I just don’t understand. In forty years of working here, this has never happened,” said the broker. I held back the tears as I shook hands, thanked them all for welcoming us like family and for being some of the nicest people on the planet, and started to walk toward the car.
The broker said, “It was an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I was looking forward to having a few cold ones with you.” I returned the sentiment with a smile, another handshake, and reassurance that we did not harbor any bad feelings against him or the marina. He handed me the check I had written as a deposit.
It was a long drive home, drenched in disappointment, and made longer by the fact that the delay at the marina caused us to miss our window through the Washington DC rush hour. It was six lanes of traffic for more than forty miles that added two hours of stop & go driving to our trip. We didn’t get back home until 1 a.m. We were drained, devastated, and defeated.
We eventually drifted off to sleep, still wondering what we did wrong. Was the old man still fighting his Great-Great-Grandaddy’s war and refusing to sell to northerners? Did someone he know find out about the sale and offer him more? We would never know.
The next morning I got a call from the broker. When I saw his name pop up I thought he was calling to apologize and maybe give me the explanation. Instead, he said: “You’re not going to believe this, but he changed his mind again. He is going to sell you the boat. And he said he’s very sorry and will make it up to you.” Nadir to Zenith in 15 seconds!
I said I wanted the seller to call me so we could clear the air. He called less than ten minutes later. And you know what? It turned out that boat meant more to that elderly man than anything in the world, and he was just trying to hang on for a few more years to his life, and to his independence. He apologized to me, said I was right about him not being a man of his word, and knew he was wrong even as he was responding to me on the dock 18 hours earlier. But, he said, he couldn’t help it. His emotions had run away with him. He said he didn’t sleep at all, and could not wait for morning to come so he could make it right.
I apologized for my tone the day before. I was brought up to respect my elders — at 85 he was more than 20 years my senior — and that part had gotten away from me. We talked for fifteen minutes, beyond mere pleasantries.
The percentage of wonderful down-to-earth people on our trip was now back up to 100.
Under different circumstances the elderly man and I could have broken bread and had a few laughs with it. (And we intend to do that when we return to finalize the purchase.)
So the good news is, we bought “the” boat. The boat that will be our home. The boat that will carry us on a 6,000 mile journey to circumnavigate the waterways of the eastern United States. It comes with the seller’s blessing: “She remembers the way from when my wife and I did that trip. She’ll get you there and back safely.”
That boat will cost us tens of thousands of dollars, and will give back tenfold in excitement and adventure.
But what Maria and I got for free was a stronger resolve to stick to our plan and our timeline. To understand that we have only a relatively short time left before we, too, are facing the same choices as our elderly seller. To take this lesson to heart, and to embark upon and fully appreciate the adventures that we have been planning for our entire twenty-two years together.