LAND-LOCKED IN THE LONE STAR STATE
I miss the bright sun throwing its rays onto the sand and ocean. I miss the sand and ocean. The putrid but pleasantly familiar smell of the muddy salt marshes at low tide. The air’s salty taste on my tongue and its overpowering scent. The obnoxious cries of the gulls overhead. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. My grandmother’s house on Chincoteague Island, Virginia. The seafood smells and sounds of it cooking in her kitchen. The fishy smell of the water in my cup as I sit in the backyard swing among the grapes and raspberries. Playing freeze tag with the kids across the street. My first boat ride of the summer. My last boat ride of the summer. Fishing for small fish and harmless trouble. Stolen kisses behind the shed with the girl across the street. Sunburn that keeps you up at night. Having to hose yourself with bugspray every time you set foot outside to avoid becoming an all-they-can-eat mosquito buffet. Crossing the bridge on the way home, watching the island disappear, and then realizing, sadly, that the marsh smell has faded as well.
I’m 2,000 miles from a place I never lived, but upon visiting always felt at home. I’m surrounded by some beautiful lakes here, which is not nearly the same. They're enough to keep in check my nonsense notions of chucking it all and moving to a coast.
At the onset of spring, I get the itch. Not just the one that drives my soul to the ocean, but one that stirs the unbirthed boatbuilder in me. I get the fever to build something that floats. Other projects press for my time and resources, and my lack of woodworking skills soundly kicks my daydreams to reality’s curb. But the itch is back, strong as ever.
I open up my shed and gaze at my grandfather’s boat. It would take too much work and too much skill and too much money to fix properly. I can’t see it happening now, mainly because I get soaked simply wading through all my excuses. It will take a professional repair job, one we cannot afford at this time. Someday ... it ... WILL ... happen.
So my itch manifests itself by my pondering what small craft I can build cheaply. I used to subscribe to a magazine called WoodenBoat. A brilliantly written and photographed publication that leads me to believe I, too, can take to the water in my very own little vessel. I flip through my old copies and look at ads selling PLANS! KITS! COMPLETED BOATS! for the backyard builder and amateur yachtsman. But money and lack of building know-how become objects even in these cases.
Another trap I fall into is the classified ads. Sure, there are tons of fabulous boats for sale. But what gets me excited are the ones listed in the “Boats for Free” section. Most are in sorry states, but some have been partially restored. Many are given away when the owner becomes ill or too fed up with the intricacies and expense of wooden boat repair. I’ve long dreamt about procuring a big, free boat and living in it. Since I’ve been married, though, that dream has been rendered ridiculous and, well, contrary to a pleasant marital relationship.
Lingering over an article about a supposedly affordable and “easy-to-build” canoe, the itch gets worse. I see myself paddling my way to better fitness, teaching the Cutlet about waterborne adventure, spending quiet times with the Petite Filet on a nearby pond, whiling away the hours far from traffic and asphalt. We’ll transport our craft atop the Family Truckster and drive up to my in-laws’ lake house in Oklahoma. We’ll float, paddle and fish our cares away for days.
The ever-circling sharks of time can keep me at bay for only so long. I must build a boat! I must build it THIS year. The Texas boating season can stretch into November, so if I can muster the sawdust, I still have time to enjoy my handiwork!
I’m going to recruit a friend (with woodworking skills and a fancy table saw) into helping me out. Then, all I need to do is find the money and buy the supplies (the article claims the materials should cost less than $200). Sounds like a great way to spend a little of the garage sale profits we're going to rake in soon.
In 56 days, I turn 30. What better way to say bon voyage to my 20s than sitting comfortably in a boat of my own making? Nothing says “Happy Birthday! You’re old!” more pleasantly than a self-built canoe.
Am I the only one who thinks that?
