Whatever Boats You Float
Well, the boating season is almost over for most of us in South Jersey. Yep, the diehard fishermen (and women, if you’re PC picky) extend the season another month or two, but we less hardy and more sane souls opt for ending it in October. Actually, there’s nothing crazy about going out on the water in colder weather, unless you find yourself actually in the water. For me, though, it’s sort of like drinking room temperature coffee.
Our personal boating ended up as a big bust this year, thanks to, well . . . us. We failed to make enough time for much of it, and we never found the need to clear some space in our freezer for all the fish we were going to catch. I first started fishing around the age of ten, and the most important lesson I learned was that the only way to catch fish is to actually put your line in the water, preferably with some bait on the hook. There’s a chance that it may still happen, but my optimism ran out awhile back.
I’ve owned (sort of) a few boats in my day, and I’ve actually bought two of them. The others just managed to drift into my possession, I guess you could say. My friend, Jack, and I found a rowboat in the marshes about four decades ago, so we did what we thought was right. We hauled it out, took it to his yard, and repainted it with some old paint that was on sale at the local hardware store. We bought brand-new bottom paint, however.
We spent a good part of that summer rowing around the bay, monitoring the jellyfish population, mainly ensuring that they didn’t over proliferate. No details will be forthcoming, except that some large rocks may have played a part.
Instead of wasting money on slip rental, we “anchored” the boat with a grappling hook (we didn’t have an anchor) off the rocks lining the south end of the bay. It required a short swim to reach the boat, as well as to disembark. One not-so-fine day, there was nothing to swim to, and we never saw the unnamed vessel again.
My next craft was an eight-foot pram that someone gave to my dad, who gave it to me. The front, bottom plywood was coming apart, but I fixed it with some nails and some fiberglass stuff that I bought. I felt the need for speed, and was lucky enough to buy a three-horse Evinrude for $35.00. Well, it was faster than rowing. Well, at least it was easier than rowing.
This time I vowed to not rely on a grappling hook for securing my vessel. I tied it to a couple of pilings that just happened to be out there in the water across the street from my house. I guess I had this thing about swimming to a boat. I took the motor off after each voyage, which meant taking it off at the bulkhead and rowing or paddling the boat back out to its makeshift slip.
My greatest adventure also included Jack, as well as my other lifelong friend, Rocco. We set off in the morning, or as close to morning as teenagers get during the summer months. The engine was all gassed up (the tank was directly on the engine, sort of like with a string trimmer), and we had another gallon in a plastic gas container. Our personal flotation devices consisted of three seat cushions I found in our basement, left over from a rowboat my dad had back in the forties.
Our course had been carefully planned, meaning Rocco said, “Hey, let’s go out to the bell buoy!” It sounded like a reasonable suggestion to me, and I don’t think Jack really objected to it, because he set off with us.
I know this means nothing to most people, but what it meant to us was heading out across the bay to the Intracoastal Waterway (we called it “The Channel”), heading a few miles down toward Cape May, then going out the inlet between the rock jetties.
We encountered some fairly large wakes from other boats when we hit the channel, but we plied along, the tops of the gunwales (sides of the boat, for landlubbers) just a few inches above the water. It took a bit of time (more than an hour, probably more than two) to reach the inlet, then heavy with traffic. I think we all found ourselves a bit surprised by the number of boats and the size of some of the wakes they were throwing. Back then, a U.S. Coast Guard self-righting whaleboat stayed in the middle of the inlet, tracking boats entering and departing. They gave us some funny looks as we passed.
We discovered the bell buoy somewhat farther out than we remembered it, but that was probably because of the smallness of the boat, as well as its lack of speed. The ground swells seemed enormous, and I found it fairly difficult to navigate, and at one time thought the waves might overcome the steerage and toss us into the towering buoy!
Fortunately, we made it around without incident, and headed back to the inlet. About halfway in, a commercial boat that considerably dwarfed ours passed by, and the wake was larger than anything we had encountered, including the ground swells in the open sea. The little three-horse was no match for the strength of the wave, and we found ourselves heading toward the jetty, riding the crest in much the same way as one of those outriggers in Hawaii!
Fate smiled down on us again. At high tide, our little plywood boat would have surely been dashed on the rocks, but low tide left a narrow area of beach between the rocks and the waterline. The final push by the wave flipped the boat near the beach, spilling everything, including the plastic gas container, into the water! Even stranger, my uncle just happened to be walking on the beach, but he showed no apparent surprise, probably from years of experience observing my behavior.
Okay, so the gas took on a bit of seawater, but the gas already in the tank wasn’t affected. We relaunched the boat and got underway, heading back toward the channel. The engine sputtered to a stop about halfway home, which made it time to test the now waterlogged gas in the spare container. Initially, the engine sounded as if it found the taste of the new gas completely unpalatable, but the engine underestimated my resolve. It acted like a small child attempting to spit out food he or she doesn’t like, but eventually swallowing it reluctantly.
Yes, it took considerably more time to complete the second half of our journey than the first, but we made it back. I even had enough time to get ready for my job on the amusement pier that evening.
It took 18 years before I acquired another boat, this time a 15-foot runabout. It ventured into saltwater only once, in Calibogue Sound, near Hilton Head, South Carolina. All of its other time was spent in freshwater lakes and rivers.
I’ve rejoined the saltwater fleet, so to speak, where I feel most at home. Our craft is a bit larger, 28 feet, and much more seaworthy than my old eight-foot pram. And it’s more complicated, has more moving parts, and costs a lot more to operate. It’s also considerably more comfortable, with most of the amenities of home, but in compact versions. But sometimes I almost long for the simplicity and reliability of that tiny little boat that my friends and I used to forge a lifetime memory of an adventure.