Opening Cast – Sept 2025

I’ve never been shy about making a fool of myself, especially if it means someone else might avoid the same mistake. So, here goes.

First a little background: I got my first boat when I was 16—a beastly little 10-foot jon boat powered by a ferocious 5.5 HP Evinrude. My buddies called it The Great Green Submarine. (How it earned that name is a tale for another day—or you can find it in my book.) That was 54 years ago, and in all the decades since, there’s hardly been a time I didn’t own and operate some kind of boat.

For the last 20 years, I’ve been a licensed U.S. Coast Guard Captain, logging literally thousands of days on the water as a fishing guide. You’d think, by now, I’d seen and handled it all.

You’d think wrong.

Recently, after wrapping up a morning fishing trip, I decided to motor up a feeder creek off the Tennessee River to pick up my daughter and 4-year-old grandson for an afternoon boat ride. We idled downstream, my grandson perched like a hawk, scanning for turtles sunning on logs and longnose gar cruising the shallows.

Just before the creek spilled into the river, we stopped to chat with another fisherman. When it was time to move on… my Yamaha refused to start. Each turn of the key was answered with a loud, obnoxious warning alarm.

I checked the oil—just a little low, nothing alarming. Still, I’m a belt-and-suspenders kind of guy, so I grabbed the quart of oil I always keep aboard and topped it off. It read perfect on the dipstick.

Still nothing—the alarm still blared and the outboard refused to crank.

With no other choice, I dropped the Minn Kota Terrova, dialed up all 24 volts, and began the slow push upstream. At 2.5 mph, it took us 45 minutes to reach my daughter’s subdivision boat ramp.

My son-in-law met us and drove me to fetch my truck. Together we wrestled the boat onto the trailer.

Please understand that I am stressing out. In nearly 13 years of ownership, that Yamaha had never failed me. Besides the cost of repairs, I dreaded calling my buddy, a mobile outboard mechanic, knowing he’d hear the panic in my voice.

Climbing back into the trailered boat to stow my gear, I happened to glance down.

There, beside the throttle, lay my kill switch. Not attached.

Yes, after two hours of stress, problem-solving, and boat-hauling, the “catastrophic” engine failure was nothing more than a kill switch I’d apparently—and absentmindedly—pulled loose.

With 54 years on the water, this was hardly my first kill-switch incident. But here’s the rub: every other time, I’d been smart enough to check it first. Not last.

So, take it from a man who’s been around the block—or at least around the boat ramp—a few times. When your outboard won’t crank, always, and I mean always, check the simple stuff first.

You’re welcome.