I have driven every boat I have ever been on, including a cruise ship that miraculously did not, with me at the helm, end up in Davy Jones’ locker.
My sole qualification for being a captain who could put the “Love Boat” skipper to shame: I had a New York state driver’s license.
Now I can pilot a vessel to Mexico or Canada, or just be a passenger with both hands on deck after becoming seasick, because I recently got an enhanced license.
The license is for driving a car (I don’t need one to drive people crazy), but it has honors and benefits beyond those of the standard driver’s license, chief of which is the legal ability to flee the country in case the Feds are after me. And, let’s face it, this is inevitable.
Several weeks ago, I went to the DMV — which in my case stands for the Department of Multiple Violations, none of which I have been ticketed for — to get an enhanced license.
I needed several items to show that, with apologies to Popeye, I am what I am, which can’t be printed in a family newspaper. I also needed to demonstrate that I am, indeed, myself; that I was, in fact, born and not created by a mad scientist (“It’s alive! It’s alive!”); and that I live in my home, sweet home.
This entailed providing my Social Security card, a bill from the electric company with my residential address on it and — here’s where it got troublesome — my birth certificate.
Unfortunately, my copy of the last document didn’t have a raised seal.
A sympathetic person at the DMV said I needed the genuine article or I couldn’t get an enhanced driver’s license.
So on a recent trip to my hometown of Stamford, Connecticut, I stopped off at the City and Town Clerk’s office in the Government Center to get an original version of my birth certificate.
I was helped by a very nice and efficient assistant registrar named Diane, who asked when I was born.
“It was so long ago that my birth certificate is probably on a stone tablet,” I replied.
This did not deter Diane, who returned approximately seven minutes later with a copy, on paper, of my birth certificate.
“Does it have a raised seal?” I asked.
“Yes,” answered Diane, who showed it to me.
“I thought I would have to go to an aquarium for a raised seal,” I said.
Another personable assistant registrar named Karin asked why I needed my birth certificate.
“I want to get an enhanced driver’s license,” I replied. “I’ll need it if I have to skip town.”
“You’re good to go,” Karin said. “We won’t tell anyone we saw you.”
A couple of days later, I went back to the DMV, where I was helped, quickly and pleasantly, by Tara, who worked at Window 11.
“Do you have all your documents?” she asked.
“Here they are,” I said, handing her my Social Security card and my electric bill.
“That’s not bad,” Tara said when she saw the bill. “I pay more than you do.”
“I would have brought a bank statement,” I said, “but there’s not much in the account.”
“I know the feeling,” Tara said.
“And here,” I said, “is my birth certificate. It even has a raised seal.”
“That means you’re you,” Tara noted.
“Nobody else would want to be me,” I said, adding that my enhanced driver’s license would enable me to fly anywhere.
“Not really,” Tara informed me. “You’ll still need a passport. The enhanced license will allow you to fly within the United States. You can also drive to Canada or Mexico. Or you can take a boat.”
“I have a boat,” I said, “but it’s in my bathtub.”
“I guess you won’t get very far,” Tara said.
“Not unless I take a cruise to Mexico,” I said. “And with my enhanced driver’s license, I could be the captain.”
