According to the 10-pound, 2,300 microfiche page “Oxford English Dictionary,” “rock the boat” appeared in print for the first time in 1931.
In “Only Yesterday, an Informal History of the Nineteen Twenties,” F.L. Allen wrote “Unfortunate publicity had a tendency to rock the boat,” to which the current online edition of “The Urban Dictionary” adds “‘rocking the boat’ means stirring up trouble. To rock the boat means to disrupt things, promote disharmony, make waves, pick a fight, causing trouble, disagreement…”
“Rock the Boat” was the title of the Hues Corporation’s disco hit, which rocked the charts with these words in July 1974: “So I’d like to know where, you got the notion, Said I’d like to know where, you got the notion, (To rock the boat), don’t rock the boat baby, (Rock the boat), don’t tip the boat over (Rock the boat), don’t rock the boat baby (Rock the boat).”
My story uses “rock the boat” in both its literal, and its figurative senses. I have told it from memory, filling in gaps when necessary, while staying true to the events. I did change names.
My tale occurs after our discovery that Mr. Frank Center welcomed all comers to swim in his pond. “Don’t bother knocking at the door,” Mr. Frank probably said, “I won’t be in the house, and my wife won’t be either. She’ll be working at the shirt factory.”
“Just ride on between the shed and the barn,” he would have continued. “I probably won’t be there either. Just go on through; you’ll see the pond, then swim ’til you get wore slam out.”
Having taken Mr. Frank at his word, some walked to get there, some came on bikes, some came in cars. This day, in the summer of 1959, we were looking for a place to swim, free from water moccasins in his farm pond near Sugar Polk.
“Look over yonder on the other side of the pond,” MoPar said. “It’s a boat.”
We walked along the bank to find a wooden boat, painted green, about 10 feet long, and three feet wide, at the place where the sides bulged out the most.
“It’s a jon boat,” Slick said.
“Why they call it that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Slick replied. “It’s just a flat-bottom boat, a little taller than a johnny house, and not as deep.”
“Let’s put it in the water,“ MoPar said.
So we pushed it until only its tail end was on the grass, then Slick and Mo got in, and I, the lightest of the three, nudged the boat into the water, and climbed in.
“Don’t turn us over,” Slick said.
“I won’t,” I said, then crawled in between them and looked around.
“Where’s the paddles?” I asked.
“They’re not here,” Slick replied.
“That’s no help,” Mo reasoned. “How we gonna move this thing?”
“We’ll have to use our arms,” I said, as I hunkered down and put my right hand in the water.
Mo paddled strong, but Slick wouldn’t paddle at all, even though he had the longest arms.
“I had to walk to get here,” Slick explained.
“You didn’t walk on your hands, Slick,” Mo noted.
When my arm started cramping I stood up.
“Sit down, Ford Boy,” Slick said.
“Yeah,” added Mo, “You’ll turn us over.”
That was where we got the idea. If we stood up and tried to turn the boat over, we might sink it. So we just rocked the boat until it drew water, and finally began to sink.
We jumped off, but the jon boat didn’t go all the way down. We treaded water, trying to decide what to do next.
“Yuck,” Slick said, when the foot to one of his long legs hit bottom. “I got muck half way up to my knee.”
We got mucked too, as we stood on the bottom, and tipped the boat on its side. When we got it under water, we stood on it to force it to the bottom.
Getting it back up was not hard, because it didn’t weigh too much in the water, but we had to stand in the muck to muscle the boat back up on top. Then we climbed in to rest.
From that time forth, we always rocked the boat, sank it, pulled it back up then repeated the process ’til we got tired. Then we swam, pushing it to the bank.
One day another buddy drove up in a right new Chevy, just as we got the boat back to shore. He got out and came over, smiling.
“What you guys doing?” he asked.
“What’s it look like?” Slick said.
“Getting wet,” Mo answered.
“That’s it,” I said. “And rocking the boat.”
I looked at the swimmers. “Let’s show him, guys.”
Slick didn’t want to, but Mo started moving.
“Come go with us, Chev,” I asked.
“Nah, I think I’ll just watch.”
“Puck, puck, puck,” said Slick, flapping his wings, chicken-fashion as he pranced around on the bank.
“It’s not deep, Chev,” I said. “We can touch the bottom, even out in the middle. We won’t even go that far.”
“I don’t know…” Chev said, bringing a bevy of puck-pucks from Slick.
So Mo pushed the boat to a shallow spot, turned the stern toward Chev then beached the boat, and climbed in. Chev got in at the stern, while I held the boat, then eased it deeper, then climbed in at the middle.
I don’t remember how we got out away from the bank, but when we did, I looked at Chev, whose lips were shut tight.
“We can touch the bottom easy, Chev,” I said. “Here comes the fun,” I smiled, then stood up and began to rock the boat. When it tipped over, Chev did too.
“He’ll come up,” I said. But he didn’t. Then, from the bank Slick spotted him.
“Get him out,” Slick shouted. “He’s gone down again. Get him out.”
I was closest to him; when I swam to where I thought he was, he came up flailing. I swam around behind him, grabbed him under his arms and kick-paddled us back toward the bank, where Mo helped me pull him out of the water. Slick brought a towel.
Chev laid there for a pretty good while, before he sat up.
“Please don’t say anything about this,” Chev said, as he took Slick’s towel.
“Why?” Slick said. “Cause you ’bout drowned your dumb ——?”
“No,” Chev answered. “‘Cause if my mama hears about this, she’ll never let me drive that car again.”
We must have promised Chev we wouldn’t say a thing about rocking him out of Mr. Frank’s boat, for — wonder of wonders — no one told a soul. The only mention came nearly 60 years later, from Chev’s own lips, when he smiled, “You saved my life.”
I don’t think we rocked the boat any more after that day, perhaps because we realized that rocking the boat, tipping the boat over, had been fun — for the rockers. But not so for our victim, who might have lost his life.
I think everyone ought to give up this boat rocking, for although most boat rockers don’t kill their victims, they often cause them so much trouble their victims might wish they were dead.