A Tender view of Bushranger

Heather and I spend a lot of time boating. Heather writes a highly entertaining blog. I make the odd cameo appearance; this is one of them.

Hi. We haven’t met. I am Bushranger’s Tender. I know this because I have emblazoned on both my saddle tanks in AR Cena font “Tender to Bushranger”. 

How do I know this? Well I ask you, particularly the girls, would you remember your owners (call them parents if that helps) labouring over your rump with a big sticky tattoo, intent on adhering it just so, so that everyone that looks at you in the future will admire your tattooed arse?

I didn’t have a chance to talk to my predecessor, a quite beautiful and sleek Boston Whaler driven by a motor to die for. Not like my little 6 horsepower minnow. As I understand it, the Whaler was a little too heavy. I must tread carefully here. She was so pretty but, well, she’d either put on weight or back in the 70s they liked their tenders on the heavier side. Anyway, she is now enjoying the fast life skimming the waters of Lake Pickwick as a rescue tender.

So, I hear you asking, what is a tender? Well my job has a glamorous and a mundane part to it. Ask Bushranger – her job description is similar in some respects.

The glamorous part is being launched to serve a variety of purposes at anchor or in ports. I recall my first serious “work” when I was launched to receive our new boat buddy’s pooch that needed to pee.  Maddie Sue got hoisted aboard my brand-new INFLATABLE saddle tanks by a hand-held PFD (Personal Flotation Device for you lubbers). Maddie is a fluff ball with sharp claws. Imagine my horror!! To cut a long story short, she embarked without puncturing my hull or losing her pee too early and returned for ferrying back to her boat in one piece, having avoided lurking alligators.

I digress. My purpose.

Well, I am stern lookout. I sit at the back of the boat with no view of what is happening ahead. Everything that passes me has already happened. As the bow, with my good friend the anchor in pride of place, proudly forges forward, I am left to take the glancing blow from the marina pylon that the boss misjudged. The Boston Whaler does not know how good its new life really is!

I am, however, a lucky girl. In our last port layover I got a complete suit of new clothes. Hanging out the back can have its benefits but not in burning sun or pouring rain. My new cover stops that, though I think the owners were more intent on preserving my Tats than my wellbeing.

Enough from me. You may hear more from me if ever the back story to Bushranger’s adventures needs to be told. Did you get that? The Back Story. I’m at the back. No? Is my talent never going to be recognised?

Ah well!  To fair winds without following seas which quite frankly, frighten me.

Such is Life