Doug Clark: Tipping point? That’s where boaters make a real splash

I’ve heard politicians, pundits and other frauds using the term “tipping point” a lot lately.

Having barely made it out of Eastern Washington University, I’ll admit I never fully grasped the concept.

Until Sunday afternoon, that is.

I now have an intimate tipping-point understanding thanks to a monumentally misguided attempt to hop my seated body from the bow of my rowboat to the dock outside the Clark cabin at Black Lake.

It seemed like a swell idea at the time.

Unfortunately, the universe is governed by physical laws like “mass and momentum.”

As in, Doug has waaaay too much mass and no momentum at all to even consider such a dunderheaded feat.

What I did accomplish was to “tip” the entire rowboat sideways until it passed that cosmic point of no return.

My pal Joe Brasch, who was seated at the stern, and yours truly were jettisoned straight into the lake.

Did I mention we were fully clothed?

“KERR-SPLASH!!!”

Here’s a truth worth considering the next time you get into a boat: No one ever takes an unexpected pratfall into a lake and maintains a sense of decorum.

Our dual baptism was like something you’d see in one of those video replay shows that exploit the misfortunes of fools who fall off ladders, buffoons who accidentally set themselves ablaze, plus all the poor souls who suffer groinal impacts from speeding baseballs, golf balls or hockey pucks.

Joe and I came out of the shallow water spluttering and thrashing about.

I’m positive I felt a minnow swim up my shorts.

All indignities considered, I am eternally grateful that no cellphone-wielding fiend was there to capture our capsizing for YouTube posterity.

That said, Joe’s sweet wife, Tera, witnessed the entire debacle from the dry comfort of the dock. And the sound of her laughter will haunt me the rest of my days.

But let me rewind this maritime tale.

Joe and Tera had come to the Clark cabin for some barbecue, good times and a boat ride. The Clarks love Joe and Tera. Ten years ago this summer, I proudly officiated their wedding ceremony.

My small rowboat (S.S. Fishless Wonder) only seats three. So my lovely wife, Sherry, remained in the cabin where there was virtually no chance of drowning.

Because of his vast boating experience, Joe got to be captain. He took control of the weenie electric motor that I use when I’m not catching fish.

Tera sat in the middle. I occupied the bow for purposes of stabilization. Or so I thought.

After cruising around awhile, we returned to the Clark dock and prepared to abandon ship in an orderly fashion. Capt. Joe and I held on to the boards while Tera, quite gracefully, sort of scooched from her seat to the dock.

“Why don’t you get out now,” ordered the skipper.

Don’t mind if I do.

Well, you know what happened next. My attempt to replicate Tera’s dismount put Joe and I into the drink.

But here’s the weird thing. As the Fishless Wonder rolled into the air, it actually hovered sideways for what seemed like a glacial pause.

“Time really does crawl when you’re faced with impending doom,” I pondered.

But unlike all the stories you hear, the scenes of my life didn’t flash before my eyes. What flashed before me were thoughts like:

“Are you insane? Nobody your size can hop his lard bottom from a boat to a dock. You really need to go on a diet.”

For part of this frozen moment Joe and I locked eyes like Winslet and DiCaprio at the farewell scene in “Titanic.”

That’s when I noticed to my dismay that Capt. Joe was leaning the same way I was, making a futile attempt to grab onto the dock.

Water started gushing in over the side.

I began mentally singing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

“The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down …”

Once we’d come up for air, we stood in the waist-deep water and set about trying to dump the 900 gallons of lake that had turned the Wonder into a kiddie pool.

Capt. Joe then went into a rant all about how in 50-some years of boating and hauling water skiers and tube users around, he had never – not once – overturned a boat, lost a passenger or “FALLEN INTO A LAKE!”

I started laughing so hard I almost wet myself, which would’ve been redundant.

Guess you’d call that the dripping point.