Day 4- Growing up on a Houseboat

My childhood is something I rarely talk about. And although there are some skeletons that are better left in closets there is definitely a lot of it that I would be happy to share. Let's begin...
My mom got pregnant with me when she was 16. (more on this story later) At the time we lived in Southern California, but she moved up to Portland, OR to be closer to her dad (my grandpa). Because of this, I spent most of my formative years living with my grandparents on a houseboat that my uber talented and crafty grandpa built.
When people hear "houseboat" think "woohoo! Lake Havasu spring break '99!!" This wasn't one of those. It was literally a house on floating logs. Like, a real house. And it was chained up to a walkway. The back of the house didn't have a yard (obviously). But what it did have was a swim float. This basically consisted of a 15'x15' "deck" on the back of the house with a little shed in the corner. I can't even tell you how much of my childhood was spent on that swim float. Summers were
spent basking in the sun in my super sweet neon pink and green 80's bikinis (or some other variation of "clothing" that I so uniquely put together, left). Oddly enough, I didn't actually learn to swim until I was 10. I wore a LOT of life jackets. And winters were spent playing in the snow or feeding ducks (with my super babe grandpa, right). Actually, all of the times were spent feeding ducks. I loved feeding ducks. A lot. I just recently found out that bread is bad for ducks. Sorry ducks.
My grandpa loved to play jokes on my dad. One summer, my dad was on the Fun Island (a big round floating device that was reminiscent of a giant cinnamon roll, but bright yellow-- because everything was bright yellow in the 80s), and he fell asleep. Generally the Fun Island (no idea why it was called "fun" it basically just sat there and did nothing but float) was tied to the swim float and on this afternoon, that was definitely the case as my dad dozed off. Well, as soon as he was catching flies, my grandpa untied the Fun Island and let my dad drift off to sea. Ok, it wasn't actually the ocean. What it really was, was a channel off of a river that was probably no more than 50 feet wide, but in my 5 year old brain, my dad was on another continent. My dad made it down the river a little bit before he hit the other bank and woke up. Luckily, he didn't go too far so we could still see him (not so we could rescue him easily... what's the fun in that??). He woke up and hilarity ensued. He was SO confused. Until he looked across the river and saw us all clutching our bellies and crying with laughter. Poor dad.
Needless to say, dad never fell asleep on the Fun Island again. Turns out it really was "fun" after all.
More houseboat stories to come... Happy Monday y'all!