My 3rd Darwin Award | “Fire on the Water”

(editors note: Mota-Boda is our connection between the 70s and the present although he seems not to be present in either.  Check his last debauchery infused offering about skiing in 70s:  1975)

It was late fall in the San Joaquin Delta [California], when dew laden spider webs sparkle like diamonds in the moonlight, and the cricket calls dwindle to just a few.

My sister was driving up (and expected soon) from Ventura, to spend a couple of days with me on the Island I lease on the River.

It was getting late in the day, and I thought ‘what the heck’, I’ll burn the scrap wood in the fire pit to warm up camp, and furthermore, I’ll build a Boy Scout fire (I’m generally a propellants guy).  So I crumpled up some newspaper, pressed it into the belly of the rubbish, lit the fire, then walked away to attend other chores.

Upon my return, I discovered a mealy-mouthed piddily-assed wisp of smoke snaking up from the fire pit, .. kind of mocking me, .. sneering at my ineptitude.  For God’s sake I’m Mota Bota! Hell, I get hired to burn timber and brush in the Sierras.  This shall not stand!

Luckily, I had an unopened gallon of white gas, and I knew the fix for this insolent plume.  I opened the can, and rather than just pouring a bit into a cup to throw on the fire, I decided to just pour it directly onto that wussfucker.

I walked over to that pansy of a wisp, unscrewed the top of the can, and poured it directly on the fire  WHOOSH!  I jerked back as a tiger of flame attacked, spilling gas on me as I instinctively dropped the can.  With every outpouring glug of the can, there’s a giant woosh! of flame.  I’m on fire, the tent is on fire, and the deck is on fire!  

I first pat the flames on me out, then grab a towel and smother the flames on my beloved Panther tent.  As the glugs and whooshes continue, I kick the can towards the water and catch the woodpile on fire!, then kick the can down the ramp, the ramp’s on fire!, then kick the can to the dock, the dock’s on fire!, and finally kick the can into the water, and yes – the water’s on fire!, and so is my kayak!  SHIT HOWDY!!!

I grab a five gallon bucket, hurriedly dip it in the river and retrace my footsteps, repeating the process as I put out the deck, the woodpile, then the dock, as the can reluctantly sinks, still gluging and whooshing.

As the final flames subside, I look back up to the deck, and there in the pit burns a lovely fire. My neighbor from across the Slough, beer in hand yells “Evenin’ Sparky”.

Damage: Patagonia vest melted, Panther tent scared, woodpile tarp destroyed, and most surprisingly, the kayak was torqued, never to track straight again.

Mota Boda