My Father-in-law the Scoundrel

My ex-father-in-law was a sailor, but mostly a scoundrel. He was rather bright in some areas—he built Canada’s largest tall-ship, the Empire Sandy, from a World War Two steam driven tug boat—but somewhat naive in others.

Norm was not a popular man around Toronto Harbour but he did earn my admiration for some of his antics.

At one time, he was running a private ferry service between Toronto and the harbour islands. His vessel was steel and didn’t leak a drop so he had no cause to use his bilge pump. But for the annual Coast Guard inspection, a working bilge pump was a requirement.

The night before this annual inspection Norm discovered that the pump didn’t work. Attempts to repair it failed, and the inspection was to take place first thing in the morning.

Norm’s devious mind came up with the solution.

As the Coast Guard inspector—a chap by the name of Wyberg—asked Norm to demonstrate the functionality of the various components on his list, Norm would comply with a military repetition of the request.

This must have disarmed the inspector—this civilian’s apparent respect and deference to his authority.

Wyberg might ask for navigation lights, and Norm would respond with, “Navigation lights on,” as he moved the switch.

When it came around to the bilge pump, Norm once again made his announcement as he switched the appropriate switch. “Bilge pump on.” At this time a crew member who’d been crammed into the bilge took his cue by making slurping sounds from beneath the floorboards.

“She’s a rather dry vessel,” Norm commented proudly as Wyberg ticked ‘Bilge Pump’ off his list.

But Norm couldn’t resist crowing about his deception and in due course it got back to the Coast Guard, earning him the enduring enmity of that organization.

Around Toronto Harbour, a non-functioning pump became known as a ‘Wyberg Pump’.

Norm was in my wife Cathy’s office one morning (she owned the party boat ‘River Gambler’ which I worked on), when I mentioned that I was going to Woolfe’s, the scrap metal dealer, to get a piece of pipe.

Norm, having had frequent dealings with this outfit chirps up. “Mention my name and they’ll probably do something for you.”

I followed my father-in-law’s advice and Mr. Woolfe offered to shove the pipe up my rear end.

Norm was never a modest man regarding his achievements or knowledge. Whenever the opportunity arose I derived great pleasure in taking the wind out of his sails. He was only a year older than me so I felt I owed him no paternal respect.

One such opportunity came about with a visit to a Canadian Tire store. I mentioned to Cathy that I was going there to buy a few things and Norm, once again in the office, pipes up, “I’ve got some stuff to pick up there. I’ll come with you.”

Well, ‘some stuff’ included a bench drill and other heavy items that required the loan of a dolly to wheel out to the truck. When we’d unloaded his purchases, Norm threw the dolly onto the truck as well.

A few days later I was talking to Cathy on the phone and she mentioned that Norm was in the office—he spent more time there since he’d handed the company over to her, than when he was running it. A plot came to me. “I’ll call right back,” I said. “Tell him the call’s for him and watch his face.”

When Norm came on the phone I put on my best French accent. “Ahh, Mister Rogairs, zis is Jacques La Pierre of Canajan Tire. I am wondering when you will be returning ze dolly you ‘ave borrow.”

“What dolly?” he demanded.

“The one you have put in your red truck.” I then rattled off the license number.

“THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS!,” shouts the pater-in-law into the phone. “I haven’t borrowed any dolly.”

“You ‘ave been seen to put this dolly in your truck,” says Jacques. “But it is okay if you are wanting to keep it. We ‘ave your credit card numbair, so we will just add the dolly to your bill.”

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Norm shrieked.

“Ave a nice day Mister Rogairs,” Jacques said. “We much appreciate your business.”

Cathy told me later that Norm’s face was red as a beet and the veins of his neck were standing out like hawsers. He apparently fumed for a good half hour after our little conversation.

A month or so later I was at a party where the host wasn’t aware that I was related to Norm or that I even knew him. He began to introduce us. “Norm Rogers,” he announced. “This is…” But before he could finish, I thrust out my hand. “Jacques La Pierre, Canadian Tiare.”

Much to our host’s surprise, Norm loudly proclaimed I was illegitimate.

Edited by Davina