We are in the coldest part of winter. Any trip to the shore entails subjecting oneself to cold wind penetrating to one’s body’s core. It is really quite foolish to subject oneself to such weather. It is also foolish to even consider buying a boat. Boats are not necessarily that expensive to buy, but to keep one and keep it well? Ah, there’s the rub.
So if going to the shore is foolish and buying a boat is foolish, how would one describe the combination of these two acts? You see, Joy and I have felt compelled over the last few weeks to prepare for summer by shopping diligently for a boat to replace the one we sold in California.
The boat with which we fell in love was an old woody. One with the keelson in need of expensive repair. Think of it as a floating Victorian home with a bad foundation. Our hearts keep drawing us back to her, but, alas, we do have brains and have, so far, been able to resist her charms. The problem being that her layout is as though it were custom designed with us in mind. She is a 1963 Egg Harbor sedan. Anyone familiar with these vessels knows that the interior is a showcase of wooden cabinetry. Below decks the cabin is all on one level with every area accessible without going up or down steps. The cockpit is large. Between the cockpit and the helm are four doors that fold to the side leaving the interior of the boat completely open to the cockpit. This creates a huge single space in which to lounge or socialize.
But in the interests of practicality we press on in search of a less demanding relationship. No doubt we will settle for some sleek modern beauty that looks like and is laid out like roughly every other vessel we will pass. We will enjoy her greatly, but in our hearts we will hold close the romance of the one we passed by.
Boat hunting, thy name is Folly.
Remember two well-deserved cliches:
"The happiest two days in a boat owner’s life are the day he buys his boat and the day he sells it."
"A boat is a hole in the water into which one pours money."