They call it the Scarab. I call it Scary. More horsepower than all the chariot races in the Roman Empire. A hull so long from its stiletto-pointed bow to the rakish transom that you'd need signal flags to take cocktail orders from the sunbathing bikinis on deck.
And it was on sale. Marked down. Must go. Only $257,000.
''I'll take it,'' I told the salesman at the marina. ''Go ahead and hook it up to my minivan. It's the one with the lawn chairs tied to the top with frayed bungee cords and a 'Clinton Happens' bumper sticker.
''Here, just put it on my Discover card. No? Any ATMs around here? Well, then, just bill me. That's Mr. Mitty, James Bond Mitty.''
I must say, it was thrilling to race my new Scarab, ''Missprint,'' across the sun-sparkled chop of Lake Michigan at speeds that are no longer street-legal, not even on Montana freeways. As I jammed the throttle forward, the bow lunged for the sky like a scalded salmon climbing Niagara Falls, knifing a shock-wave wake through air and water with a deafening turbine whine like the jet engines of a 747 in full reverse thrust as the landing wheels chirp on the runway and a cheerful voice announces, ''We've just touched down, welcome to Reality. Please remain seated until your fantasy comes to a complete stop.''
What was I thinking? Of course I didn't tell them to gas up the Scarab and hook it to my groaning minivan. I was on vacation out of state - not insane out of my mind. I'm not like those tycoons who fly around the country slashing budgets and adding links to newspaper chains so they can shower shameless wealth on major stockholders such as each other. Those guys could buy a whole carton of cigarette boats with their dividends. Not me. I'm just an ordinary, off-the-rack editorial writer.
So I bought the 42-foot racing sloop with the teak deck and deep blue hull and billowing red, white and blue spinnaker emblazoned with the clever nautical name I chose: ''Blowhard.''
I may not know much, but editorial writers know nothing if they don't know wind. I can inflate a minor misunderstanding with words like a bicycle pump on a toy balloon. Turning a puff of a breeze into a full gale is my job description. Hot air is my element.
So I joined the canvas navy, and stood on the pitched deck of ''Blowhard'' shouting commands like Captain Jack Aubrey sailing the HMS Surprise through a Patrick O'Brian novel: ''Bend a sheet to the fore topsail mizzen halyard on the larboard scuppers and reef the galley bilge,'' I roared over snapping sheets and crashing waves. I was not entirely certain what that meant, but as Jack Aubrey always says that Lord Nelson always said: ''Just go at 'em.''
The crew rolled the carronades to the gunports for a broadside, I waited for the rising swell and gave the command: ''Fire at will!''
''Who's Will?'' the cabin boy asked.
''Never mind,'' the First Mate replied, ''your father is mumbling again. He always gets that poleaxed look around large boats we can't afford.''
Mutiny!
Cast adrift like Captain Bligh in an 11-foot dinghy, no paddle, a dead motor, only the old Armstrong outboard. I paddled furiously with both cupped hands, cursing like a bosun until I finally struck shore, headed for the nearest marina, ogled the gleaming Scarab, inspected the racing sloop and then asked the nearest salesman:
''Can you repair a 1963, three-horsepower Evinrude outboard?''
I commanded his immediate attention. He looked at me with careful concentration, filing away details that would come in handy later when he gathered with his mates at the Tip-A-Few, to tell them the sea yarn about the sailor who walked in, soaked to his sunburned skin, wiped his brow with skinned knuckles, carefully appraised a 700-horsepower speedboat - and then asked about parts for an antique outboard that couldn't blend milkshakes at a soda fountain.
I hope he laughed so hard he broke a rib.
They say a boat is a hole in the water that you pour money into. If so, the Scarab makes a splash like the Titanic being baptized. My little 11-foot dinghy is an annoying drip from a stubborn, leaking faucet. A slow drip. Without a motor. No paddle. Up the creek.
But it has a mast and two sails. And when I'm at the helm, ducking to avoid the only part of a sailboat that is logically named after the sound it makes if you don't get out of the way in time (for lubbers, that be the ''boom'') - when the sails belly out like a fat man's T shirt, I'm Jack Aubrey on the deck of a square-rigged frigate, sailing into action.
That's what everyman dreams to be: Walter Mitty on vacation. ''Fix bayonets! Stand by to board the Scarab!''
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
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