The new salt effect

April 2008

By Tom Snyder

The brilliant social critic, Tom Wolfe, notices a lot of things about us. He is the one who identified the “Me Decade” and the “We Decade.” He named immensely wealthy, dangerously skinny, and endlessly acquisitive New York matrons as “Social X-rays.” In “The Right Stuff,” he came up with my favorite of his uncanny observations: After the X-15 testing program, all airline pilots started to speak over the PA with a southwestern drawl. Even guys from Connecticut presented flight information with a blend of cocky southern hospitality and some Chuck Yeager mission control thrown in. “Good morning, y’all. I’m your pilot, Thorpe, from Connecticut, and we’re gonna have us a pretty little scoot over to Minneapolis today.”

I’ve been waiting my entire writerly life to come up with something similarly trenchant. Well, I have finally found one. It’s not as ubiquitous as the “Chuck Yeager Effect,” but it’s out there. Believe me, I know, because I’m the first one in whom I’ve noticed this embarrassing effect. I’m calling it the “New Salt Effect,” where guys who have bought or chartered a cruising boat, even if they come from downtown Indianapolis, begin to describe their boating experiences with a subtle salty, wizened cadence. It’s hard to describe, but suddenly one becomes a philosopher of risk, mental toughness, preparedness, and just plain salt-spray-in-your-face common sense.

This effect is hard to separate from the boating experience itself, so the best way I can demonstrate this is to imagine, for you, what it would sound like if this same effect took place in guys who bought new cars. Imagine a guy wrote you an email about driving with a buddy to a nearby marina.

“At 0800, I downloaded a traffic report. I was looking for a window of opportunity to drive across town. But the prudent driver knows in his gut that there’s no substitute for just getting out there and eyeballing the traffic. You sense patterns. Windows of opportunity have a way of slamming shut. Also, I always bring my road maps along. Sure, I have an onboard GPS, and I love it, but these satellites give drivers a false sense of confidence. Call me old school.

“As we were getting in my car, my buddy threw his gear in the back seat. I told him, sure, throwing stuff in the back seat is easier, but that trunk is there for a very good reason. He asked me what the big deal was. I was friendly, but let him know that in a car there is only one driver. He got it.

Pulling myself into the driver’s side, I did a once-over on the exterior. Was that a blister on the hood paint? Maybe. I added it to the mental to-do list that all serious drivers maintain.

Pulling out of my driveway, no one had to tell me to strap on my nylon mesh three-point seat belt with spring-loaded retractor. It’s not for sissies. It’s for guys who have been around the block a few times. By habit, I checked my fuel-tank gauge and saw that I was down to three-eighths of a tank. My rule of thumb is to maintain at least a third of a tank of fuel at all times, and to fill up early and often – before there’s a problem. We pulled into a gas station and filled up next to a guy in a rig from old Yugoslavia – battered, but a coat of paint would have prettied her up good. The guy asked me for directions. I had local knowledge, which I was happy to share. He drove off, and I realized that I would probably never see him again, but who knows. Sure he was different from me: I have male-pattern baldness, and he had two problem cowlicks, but we were alike in more important ways that have to do with The Road.

Back on the highway, things began to settle into routines: light pressure on the accelerator pedal, intermittent braking. Watchful. Relaxed and tense at the same time. I noticed hills coming up faster – less distance between. Maybe 750 feet apart. That was a clue. I know these roads. Like a horse heading home, I eased my Camry to the right to line up for the exit.

Moments later, smooth as a baby’s bottom, I turned into the marina driveway. Seeing the perfect spot, I backed into a space that was meant for a vehicle half the size of mine. It’s funny how at times like these, instinct takes over. The math of parking is daunting, but you trust yourself and try to remember the articles you’ve read.

Finally, inside the marina bar with a few other guys, I allowed myself the first full breath I’d had in minutes. Then I joined in the time-honored ritual of sharing road stories: rush hours from hell, that sort of thing. I guess it comes from equal parts of exhaustion and mutual respect.

So there it is. Fortunately, guys don’t talk that way about driving, because, for one thing, women would laugh at us. But for cruiser dudes, it’s open season. We can’t help but exude this startling strain of grandiose modesty and philosophical precision. Especially in print. So thank y’all for your time.

Tom Snyder sails out of Portland, Maine.