Designated Driver
It's time to consider the merits of a Designated Driver
by Dave Kelley; photos by Joe Skorupa
March 14, 2007
In memory of Dave ...
Dave Kelley, a key part of the Boating World team since 1996, passed away in December at the
age of 43 (for more on Dave, see this month's "Editor's Note"). During his tenure at Boating World,
Dave wrote hundreds of articles, many of them award winners. This article, originally published in
April '99, showcases Dave's charismatic writing style at its finest.
It's your worst nightmare. After a day of yahooing your way across the water, you find
yourself standing on shore, surrounded by cops, watching the Breathalyzer you just blew into start
registering "Drunker Than Cooter Brown's Goat." Which you are, no doubt about it. One of the cops
starts laughing and says, "So, which one of us gets to take him to jail?"
Under normal circumstances, right about now is when I'd be seriously weighing the risks of
turning this day at the lake into an episode of "Cops" and making a run for it. After all, in the
state of Texas, a conviction for boating while intoxicated - of which I am way guilty - carries a
penalty of "a fine not to exceed $2,000, confinement in jail not to exceed 180 days or both (first
offense); a fine not to exceed $4,000, confinement not to exceed one year or both (second offense);
a fine not to exceed $10,000, imprisonment for not more than 10 years or less than two years (third
offense)." The fine alone is about a bazillion times more than I can handle. The good news is,
these aren't normal circumstances. In fact, the cops - four Austin (Texas) Park Police (APP) and
one game warden from the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department (TPWD) - have been watching me drink
and drive for a couple of hours now, documenting the whole thing. In addition, Boating World Editor
in Chief Joe Skorupa is on hand to photograph the whole thing, as is anchorman Dick Ellis and a
video crew from Austin's KTBC-TV, the local Fox network affiliate. As a result, I'm enjoying a
level of immunity usually reserved for diplomats or politicians. And I'm laughing.
You'd be
laughing, too, if you'd just tossed back seven beers (Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, 5.6 percent alcohol)
and three shots of Irish whiskey (Black Bush, 40 percent alcohol or 80 proof). And if you'd done it
on an empty stomach, like I have, you'd be wobbling like me, too. And I'm willing to bet that you'd
have run over at least as many buoys on the slalom course as I just did. The Breathalyzer has my
blood-alcohol content (BAC) measured at 0.15 percent, well over the 0.10 that qualifies me as
legally drunk in Texas and every other state in the good ol' U.S. of A.
It wouldn't be funny, though, if one of those buoys had been a skier or a swimmer. You don't
laugh much when you throw the wheel the wrong way - which I did on that last run - and wind up
hitting a sand bar or a dock at full throttle. Dead men tell no tales, nor do they so much as
chuckle, and it's estimated that at least 40 percent (and some believe the number is closer to 70
percent) of boating-related deaths involve alcohol. That's why I'm here, to demonstrate and
experience first-hand just what happens as you go from cold sober to invincibly drunk.
The Setup
The plan is simple. After setting up a five-buoy, out-and-back slalom course, I'll run my
test boat - a twin-engine Sea-Doo Speedster - through the course for time. I'll dock the boat, step
ashore and submit to a battery of field sobriety tests administered by the APP and TPWD, including
the Breathalyzer. Then I'll have myself a cold one and do it all again, until I pass the legal BAC
limit of 0.10. Safety is a primary concern. The course is closed, with a pair of Park Police boats
guarding the perimeter so I don't endanger anybody but myself. I've chosen the Speedster because,
as a jet boat, it will slide if I take a turn too fast instead of hooking up and maybe tossing me
from the boat. APP officer Rick Zapata is riding shotgun with me to make sure I don't get out of
control. Zapata and I are both wearing PFDs at all times.
Skorupa and the KTBC crew are documenting the whole thing, from shore and from a photo boat.
Skorupa also has to be my designated driver - my journalistic immunity ends with the test. At 1
p.m. we begin.
A Six-Pack And
Nothin' To Do
Actually, I have two six-packs. And a bottle of Irish whiskey. Considering my size (6 feet 2
inches tall; 220 pounds), the cops figure I'll need at least seven drinks to get legally drunk.
(Smaller people get drunk on fewer drinks.) Considering my admittedly checkered past - four years
of college in the early '80s, 10 years playing rugby after that, and writing about beer and whiskey
for the past four years - I figure I'd better have a little extra on hand just in case my tolerance
is particularly high today.
The first run, cold sober, is a cakewalk. The Speedster and I blast through the course in
50.1 seconds. I ace the sobriety tests and blow a 0.00 on the Breathalyzer. Then I slide back
behind the wheel of the Speedster, reach into the ice chest, pull out a beer and chug it with
impunity right in front of five uniformed police officers. Ain't this the life?
Round One
If you want to know what nervous is all about, climb into a boat with a cop two minutes after
slamming a beer. My slalom time drops to 52.3 seconds as I overcompensate ridiculously and
putt-putt my way through the course. In the passenger seat, Zapata starts needling me. This does
not relax me. Back on shore, I again breeze through the sobriety tests and again score a perfect
0.00 on the Breathalyzer. The second Sierra Nevada goes down fast and easy.
Round Two
Two beers down, and I'm feeling good. The sun is warm, the wind is light, and I have the
Speedster and the course dialed in. My throttle work is masterful, my steering perfect, and we
scorch through in 49.9 seconds. Zapata is impressed. "Yeah," he says, and I hear the admiration in
his voice, "You're feeling OK, now, aren't you?" Damn straight. I pass the sobriety tests with
flying colors, although Zapata spots a little bit of eye bounce during the horizontal nystagmus
test. In this test, the officer has you follow an object with your eyes as he moves it across your
field of vision. Cold sober, your eyes will move smoothly from side to side and hold a steady gaze
even at the limits of your periph-eral vision. But as you become impaired, your eyes begin to move
erratically, jiggling involuntarily at the periphery. The drunker you get, the more pronounced the
eye movement. This is the one test you can't practice for, the one you can't beat. I blow a 0.03 on
the Breathalyzer, nowhere near the limit. To celebrate, I have myself a cold 'n' frosty.
Round Three
On the course, I'm singing "More Beer," Fear's anthem to copious consumption. "I can open up
and finish faster than you," I croon through the first turn, "Gonna kill a case or maybe two." Do I
feel those three Pale Ales working their way through my system? Absolutely. And I like it. The
thing is, while I feel smoother than ever going through the course, my time actually drops to 50.5
seconds. Hmmm. Zapata thinks I'm taking the turns too wide. He also thinks I'm drinking too slowly.
The Breathalyzer has me at 0.05 after three beers, legally safe, but I have my first stumble in the
sobriety testing, getting wobbly while trying to stand on one foot while counting backward from 30.
I blame the wind and make my first trip to the head.
At this point,
time is starting to become a factor. I figured I'd be able to do all the tests and drink a beer
every 15 minutes, but I'm falling behind, mainly because I'm starting to get talkative. At my
current rate, a beer every 30 minutes now, I'll get drunk, but it could be dark before I do. In
addition, one of the two Breathalyzer units has failed, and we have a limited supply of mouthpieces
for the one that's still working. (You have to use a new mouthpiece every time you take the test to
eliminate the residue effect.) So we decide to up the ante. I have my first shot of Black Bush and
chase it with beer.
Round Four
"I drink alone," I sing in my best George Thorogood impression as I enter the slalom course.
"Yeah, with nobody else. 'Cause you know when I drink alone,
I prefer to be by myself." Zapata thinks this is funny. He thinks it's funnier when I run
right over the top of a buoy midway through the course. "Good thing that wasn't a skier," I shrug,
en route to a course record of 49.3 seconds. I blow a 0.08 on the Breathalyzer, legally drunk in 16
states. I've had four beers and a shot of whiskey, the equivalent of five drinks in a hair over an
hour, and I feel 'em. I'm at the point where I'd be making somebody else drive me home, which is
exactly what I should do. Once again, I wobble while trying to balance on one foot, and I'm unable
to say the alphabet correctly, which is pretty embarrassing. To alleviate my shame, I have my
second shot of whiskey and chase it with my fifth beer. I feel much better.
Round Five
I hit another
buoy. I don't care. I'm too busy taunting Zapata. The way I see it, he may be the cop, but I'm the
one who's having all the fun, so the joke's on him. "Admit it," I yell, "you wish you were me right
now, don't you?" He laughs. I know I'm right. I also know I have no business driving, but, hey,
I've a job to do, so I'm giving it all I got. I work through the course in a sloppy 50.1 seconds.
This time, I bump the Breathalyzer to just over 0.09, not quite legally drunk in Texas. I let
out a "WooHoo!" that strongly suggests otherwise. Surprisingly, I make it through the sobriety
tests more or less unscathed. The cops say it's because I've had a lot of practice. I say it's
because I'm good, damn good. It's time to kick this thing up a notch and go for broke. I have a
beer, a shot and another beer. I'm about to say a few other things, but I think better of it. I'm
seriously buzzed, but I'm not yet stupid.
Last Call
This is it. I'm not holding anything back. The course and me, mano a mano. Of
course, after seven beers and three shots of whiskey, I'm completely outgunned. I grab the wrong
throttles, I nearly throw the boat in reverse, I run over two buoys, and I couldn't care less. In
the passenger seat, Zapata is laughing at my feeble attempts at docking. I don't care. I nearly
trip over the dock line as I clamber out of the Speedster. Whatever. "No blood, no foul," I say, as
I make my way to the sobriety tests.
This is where it gets kind of ugly. I forget large sections of the alphabet. I count backward
from 30 by completely skipping the teens. My eyes not only don't follow the pen during the
horizontal nystagmus test, they don't focus on whatever it is they are following. I don't even try
standing on one foot. I'm blotto, and the 0.15 reading on the Breathalyzer makes it official. If
this was Mayberry, I'd be Otis. As it is, it's Austin and we've made our point - you can't drink
and drive.
Paying The Piper
It's now the day after the night before, and I'm trying to cut a deal with God where I die
right now without complaint if my head will JUST STOP THROBBING. Through the achingly bright light
of a world-class hangover, I look at the results of yesterday's tests. They paint a pretty clear
picture. As the booze began to build up in my system, the effects began to multiply almost
exponentially. I lost my motor skills, I lost my judgment, and I lost my handheld GPS. What's more,
I did all this under controlled conditions. I shudder to think what might've happened had I been
operating in the real world.
The conclusion is simple. Don't drink and drive. Designate a driver. Wait 'til the end of the
day to enjoy a boat drink. Just don't risk it. Or else you might find yourself, in the words of ZZ
Top, having to ask the cop putting you in handcuffs, "How could anyone be so unkind, as to arrest a
man for driving while blind?"
Blood-Alcohol Standards
0.02 - At and above this level, U.S. federal laws mandate that a person in a safety-sensitive
transportation job must be removed from the workplace. I passed this level after two beers.
0.04 - At and above this level, U.S. federal laws mandate that persons in safety-sensitive
transportation jobs must be sanctioned and may lose their jobs. At this level, I was beginning to
feel the effects of the alcohol on my motor skills.
0.08 - The legal limit in 16 states. At this point, I definitely felt impaired.
0.10 - You're legally drunk in 50 states.
0.30 - At this point, many people will lose consciousness.
0.40 - At this point, many people will become comatose and could die of alcohol poisoning. -
D. Kelley
Editor's Note: Some of the laws referenced in this article have changed since the story was
originally printed in 1999. For the latest boating-related laws and restrictions in your state,
please contact your local law enforcement agency.
If you're interested in reading more of Dave's stories and making a donation in his memory,
please visit
www.boatingworld.com/davekelley.
Related Links:
www.boatingworld.com/davekelley (http://www.boatingworld.com/davekelley)