17/05/2026
Yesterday, after a critical remark from one of our sweet, loving daughters, Jamie responded with, " DILLIGAF!" I took a moment to laugh over that word and mentioned to Jamie over how we first learned it, so many years previous.
One summer, when the girls were around 8 and 9 years old, we ventured over to Vancouver Island with Mirage, our 31' Dufour. We pulled into a slip in the Nanaimo Marina where we would moor for 2 weeks. The girls would do a one week dinghy sailing course, we'd explore the area, and stay in the centrally located marina. Part way through, Jamie had to return to Kamloops for a 4 day work shift, and I remained on the boat with the girls. On Wednesday evening the local racing crews had their traditional club racing evening. After an early dinner, the girls were down in the boat, colouring pictures and making crafts, while I sat in the cockpit reading a book.
Along he came, that kind of guy we admire yet hate in equal parts. With salt and pepper hair cut to military precision, expensive sailing water-wicking race attire, a cocksure expression, and with nary a glance over at me, he stepped aboard his boat named, DILLIGAF.
He moved about the deck, opening up hatches, stripping off covers, recoiling lines and testing winches. He'd done this routine innumerable times and there was zero wasted movements.
"Hello!" I called. "Nice night for some racing!"
Without bothering to look up, he grunted out, "Hmph, could do with more wind."
Undetoured, of course, I continued to try to talk to him. " We've been moored beside you for the past 6 days and I've wondered about the name of your boat. Is that an African word or...?"
He was irritated by me, I'm sure, a point that was driven home when he grunted out, "DOES IT LOOK LIKE I GIVE A F ."
"I'm sorry...was that a question?" I asked.
"That's the name of the boat. D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F." he punctuated out, looking up at me with a bored and superior expression.
"Oh. So not African, then?"
Not bothering to waste time with a reply he quickly started his engine, cast his lines on to the dock, and shrugged off my offer to help with the lines.
"I've got it. Easier if you don't help." he muttered dismissively.
As his race boat moved away from the slip, his 120 volt AC power cord (roughly the thickness of a garden hose) was still plugged into his boat AND to shore power. It pulled along until it unplugged from the boat, sinking into the water. The one thing NOT to do, is forget to disconnect these high voltage cables before dropping them into the living sea.
I called out a warning to him, and I jumped on to the dock and unplugged his cable from shore power.
By the time he got the boat turned around and hastily back in the slip, my girls had emerged from our boat cabin to see what the commotion was.
Their presence alone, was the sole reason I stopped myself from saying,
"Looks like you should have given a bit more of a F ."
