AND THE WINNER IS…
Sometimes, life’s small victories are the most satisfying
Aw, come on, Doc, have mercy! I’ve slaved all winter building the Bluenose, and now you’re telling me I can’t race her?” Doc Giles snorted. “The Bluenose! George, how do you have the nerve to name an entrant in a bathtub race the Bluenose? It’s an insult to that grand old Nova Scotia schooner! But I meant what I said, unless you lose 20 pounds, I don’t want you anywhere near that race, you hear me? Do you want to have another heart attack?”
“But the race is just eight weeks away,” George wailed. “How can I lose 20 pounds in eight weeks?”
“Well, you could stay away from O’hara’s chip wagon for a start. And tell Barb to quit baking those butter tarts of hers. You know you’ve got no self control when they’re in the cupboard.”
George heaved himself out of his chair and shuffled to the door. Hand on the knob, he turned and fired one parting shot. “You might be a fine doctor, but you sure are one heck of a killjoy!”
Doc Giles just shook his head. He and George had been friends for over 30 years, and if he had to play the bad guy, so be it.
“You realize what this means, eh?” said
Barb. She was up to her elbows in suds at the kitchen sink. She wagged a finger and bubbles flew in all directions.
“No more fish and brewis for you, because if I can’t cook it in pork fat I might as well not even bother. There’d be no taste to it at all. And flipper pie is off the menu, too. We’re just going to have to come up with a whole new way of eating.”
George groaned.
“Well, it’s either that or you’re out of the race. Never mind, I’ve got an idea. It wouldn’t hurt me to lose a few pounds. Mavis hinted as much to me at bingo the other day. ‘Course I pretended I didn’t hear her, but the jab hit home just the same. So how ’bout we go on this diet lark together?”
Wiping suds off his chin, George could almost smell the low-cal gourmet dishes she was concocting in her head. It was a pity that none of them smelled like butter tarts.
Later, George rolled up the rim on his Tim Horton’s coffee cup, studied it and sighed. Lost again! Then, to add to his pain, his buddy Stan glanced over at his plate and burst out laughing. “One Timbit! You bought one Timbit? Barb must really have you under her thumb!”
“It’s nothing to do with Barb. I’m just taking care of my health, that’s all. Anyway, I picked the one with sprinkles on it, so it counts as two.”
That’s the way things had been going for six weeks now. The pounds were coming off, and he’d gone down two notches on his belt, but it had been a struggle. Barb was a trooper, scouring cookbooks and the Internet for recipes, and cooking up a storm. Unfortunately, the garbage disposal swallowed more than one experiment. But he had to admit Barb was looking mighty fine. Just two more weeks—oh, for a plate of french fries and gravy!
Down at the wharf, Stan was sounding off again, “She’s a beauty, but I warn ya, she’ll never float.”
He’d never been any further than Bradley’s Cove, 40 miles down the road, but he played the expert on everything from nuclear energy to weaning calves. Today though, he was wearing his “naval architect” hat.
“Nope, she’s too narrow in the beam.” “What do you know about boats?” George challenged. “Why, you’re still wearing idiot strings on your mittens! The Bluenose will float a treat, I tell ya.”
“How much do you wanna bet? Twenty dollars says she’ll sink.”
“You’re on!”
George lowered his voice. “But don’t tell Barb.”
At last it was race day! George was lying on the daybed in the kitchen, plotting his strategy and anticipating his victory. He got up and fastened his belt. Four holes down.
Not bad. He permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction.
Barb rounded the corner from the living room. His eyes widened in surprise. She was looking mighty spiffy in a pink pantsuit and high heels.
“Oh, I see you’re up,” she said, colouring at his raised eyebrows. “Usually I can’t drag you off that thing.”
Barb hated the lumpy old daybed. It had sat in the kitchen as long as George could remember, and he’d had many a fine nap on it. But Barb was campaigning to replace it with a swanky Ikea model, all stripes and flowers. The catalogue had sat pointedly on the toilet tank, haunting him for three months, but its presence still hadn’t broken George’s resolve.
A crowd had gathered at the wharf, and some of the bathtubs had already been launched. They bobbed awkwardly in the slight chop. George caught Stan’s eye. Stan grinned and rubbed his fingers together. Well, he’d show him. He’d not only win his 20 dollars, but the trophy,too!
He backed his truck down the boat launch, easing the Bluenose into the salt chuck. She floated prettily on her red bottom, and George let out a sigh of relief. But suddenly, inexplicably, she listed to starboard and disappeared under the water.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd. George stood rooted in place, staring at the spot, disbelieving. A whole winter’s work, gone! All those hours debating the merits of this design versus that, the scrounging for materials, the frozen fingers and the paint-splattered clothes—for nothing! Stan was right, he was a loser.
He felt Barb slip her arm through his. Then Doc Giles was beside him. “Sorry, George, I know you had your heart set on winning. But think about this...” he stood back and surveyed them from head to toe with satisfaction. “You won yesterday when you stepped on that scale in my office, both of you.”
He raised their arms high in the air and the crowd roared its agreement.