Boat-Buying Buzz

Gazing wistfully at what typically remains of the Ocmulgee River this time of year, an educated thought presented itself: “Why would anybody want a new boat?”

Since the Oc may have been transformed by a couple of unlikely monsoons between the times I’m writing and you’re reading, be advised that on this particular afternoon, it was green.

Maybe it’s a shortage in my cranial wiring; possibly the extension cord is not plugged in; there may even be a blown fuse. But when that beloved strip of water that I grew up on is transformed into a pastel green, one of my VINTAGE boats is about to get launched.

Sorry folks. Can’t help it. To you, my faithful readers, there’s an admission that must be made: I am an Ocmulgee addict!

There. I’ve said it. But even worse, there’s the Oconee, Flint, Satilla, Ogeechee, Ohoopee…

But enough of rivers for the present. Let’s get back to the boats.

Why vintage? Sounds better than old. Or scruffy. Or dilapidated.

The only time you will see the Ocmulgee in its present hue is when it is looooow. Typically happens during the dead of summer. The Oconee becomes nearly blue; the Satilla sweet-tea-brown, with sugary sand glowing beneath.

It’s my favorite time of year to fish because it’s lazy and secluded.  And if you care to make a dilapidated boat out of a new boat, try running it up or down any one of these bodies of water right about now.

Or you can take an old river rat’s advice and put your vintage craft in and mosey around. That’s more likely to get you and your gear back in one piece.

Back 25 or so years, I met a fellow. In my line of work, you meet all kinds, but in this outdoor business if I had to come up with a lineup of the top-three all-around nicest guys  ever, Forrest L. Wood would be right there.

And at that year’s Bassmaster Classic, I rode for three days as a press observer in several of his 385-V Comanches. End result being that had I had an extra 25 grand lying around, I would have very definitely spent it on that one boat bought from that one salesman.

To me, there’s never been another boat like that one. But putting it in the Oc in August? Negative.

That Comanche had stuff, though. Electronics out the wazoo, more hosses than a semi, seats you could sleep in…

But my vintage aluminum boat has stuff, too. It even had wire. Not exactly WIRING. Just wire. No clue where it came from. Vintage boats simply seem to accumulate stuff.

Two of us were on the river one August and I veered the 12-horse outboard a little left when I should have steered right. Maybe since the rock had been there for 60 million or so years it figured it had right of way and refused to move.

(As of last week, it still hadn’t.)

The lower unit of the outboard didn’t exactly make a great first impression when the two came together, but the rock sure did. I’m just lucky that it was no worse than a sheared pin.

For which I had no spare, despite the fact that I KNOW there was a three-pack SOMEWHERE in that 20-gallon tackle box!

What to do, what to do… That’s when I spied a 6-inch strip of copper wire at my feet. Hmmm…

Didn’t work; copper was too soft: shift into gear, out it clunks. Partner suddenly perked up and spied an old chain stringer up front.

Honest guys, I’ve never used a chain fish stringer in my life. Where that vintage boat came up with this thing I’ll never know. What I do know is that with a pair of pliers from the depths of the tackle box, a shear pin was fashioned from strands of whacked stringer wrapped in plastic stripped from the wire.

Call it meandering if you must, but we clunked all the way back to the landing.

Now I ask you: do new boats come equipped with strips of runaway copper wire and free-roaming chain stringers? Aberration, you say?  This wasn’t even my favorite example…

Same partner, his vintage boat, different river. I’m running the motor, mainly because the starter cord has to be snatched approximately 62 times, and he’s too lazy.

Prime carb; pull cord. Again. And again. Repeat. Until arthritis sets in. Mash bulb, prime carb. Pull cord. Hear explosion. See fire.

No kiddin’.

And yeah, we had drifted out into the middle of the current, which is to say too far to leap to the bank. So here I perch with a flaming outboard in my face when what do I spot in the bottom of the vintage boat?

You’d never guess, so I’ll tell you: a rubber galosh! Not a boot, a galosh.

 How in the screamin’ meemies do I know how it got there? Or where the other one is? It ain’t my boat.

But if there’s a better river water dipper than a left galosh, I ain’t found it.

You probably have a picture in your mind of a screaming redneck dancing like his shorts were afire—which could happen any second—and creating a riverine waterfall by the galoshed gallon. If so, keep it there; I’m just glad no cameras were rolling.

Eventually, the fire was extinguished. As were likely five years of my life. But we were on that green river. Alone. So I pulled one more time. It purred. We fished. I told you it was an addicition.

So when you go to buy that new boat, negotiate wisely: get ’em to throw in a scrap of copper wire and a lefty galosh…