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Oooops!
There were two gentlemen always racing about from the dock by the old Bayview Hotel. They had small aluminum boats outfitted with racing type engines. One
was named Brownie. His boat was almost always a shade faster. It was called "The Silver Slipper." It was silver and reminded me of a fast mosquito
flying across the water.
If you had seen and remember these gentlemen, Brownie’s adversary was Walt, my hero. His boat was an Arkansas Traveler so close in design and color to my
own, that the engines appeared to be their only difference. With a boat so close in looks to mine it allowed second fastest on the Pond to be more than
adequate in my mind. (If you saw me, I was the well tanned, toe-headed kid hanging around hoping for a ride. Random thought: It seems unfair that the
4,000-pound, Cruiser's Inc. cuddy cabin day cruiser that I now use could pass those two speed demons of my past like they were standing still.)
I was privileged to have the use of a boat and motor since the late 40's. It started with my grandfather's Arkansas Traveler, a 12-foot, V- bottomed aluminum
boat powered by a Johnson 2 horsepower engine. It was not very fast, but for a boy who may have been 80 pounds soaking wet, it was the Indy 500. Soon my
grandfather added a powerful 5 horsepower Elgin. Not as dependable, but twice again as fast.
The 12-foot boat was really too small for a family outing and soon my grandfather purchased a new 10-horsepower Johnson and a 16-foot molded plywood
Whirlwind boat. He did not trade the Arkansas Traveler. I found out years later he had given it to my dad so that when he wanted to go for a ride, he would
not have to wait for me to return from where ever I was. We were both happy.
My dad did not boat much and I was limited only by my ability to obtain gas and oil. I was strong enough to pull up the boat at night, remove the engine with
the carrier, and return all essentials to the boathouse. The next morning I was capable of having the proper life saving equipment, mixing the proper gas and
oil, and knowing to fasten and chain and lock on the engine. (I was often reminded of the chaining operation). When underway, I knew the rules of the road. I
was aware of the shallows and most other obstacles in the Pond. I was also adept at checking to see that the water pump was functional and backing down the
engine when the telltale change in engine pitch indicated weeds were on the prop.
True to its reputation, the 5-horsepower Elgin died one day and it was a long row from the beach. My dad was handy with engines. He shortly diagnosed at
least one bad coil, probably two. The following weekend we returned with two new coils, new points, plugs and a pledge from me to do a few chores. Then my
dad went to work. Within a few hours, he removed the engine, replaced the above parts, greased and cleaned the engine. He placed the engine back on the boat
and when started, it purred like a kitten. I could hear the sound of power that was missing before and could not wait to take it on a run across the lake. I
was immediately told that the mechanic had the honor of checking it out.
As he pulled away from the dock I could see and hear the difference. I turned to go back up to the camp. I knew it would be a while before he returned. I was
just stepping off the dock when the engine sound changed drastically. I turned and saw my dad standing, then fooling with the anchor, then playing with an
oar (like it was a gun and he was shooting at something in the water).
Minutes later he started rowing back to the dock. At first, I was afraid that the repair needed repair. Then I thought he was pretending. When he was within
a hundred yards I knew that he had lost the engine. I was devastated, he was angry. When he had tried to drop the anchor it was knotted and would not reach
the bottom. He used the oar to try and get a position by visually sighting in both directions. This was only partially accurate because the boat was drifting
from a brisk wind.
I bore the brunt of his anger. To him, it was me who had knotted the line (not), me who had broken the coils (not), and probably me who caused the brisk wind
(also not). As he was telling me that this was the end of my "boating career", and that rowing was better for me anyway, I heard my great aunt
behind me. "Bernard, you stop right now. How many times have I listened to you and Less tell this boy to chain that motor? Did you chain it?
My dad was silent.
We didn't speak of the motor for a week. The following week there were two young fellows with a hand pump and diving suit over the approximate location where
the motor disappeared. After the day's dive they informed us that it was so mucky below that even if you could see down there, anything that heavy would have
sunk into the muck. They had stepped around the bottom, trying to feel for the motor, but after getting stuck themselves and then pulled free from above a
few times, they said it was too dangerous. We were all disappointed.
The following week I had a new 7 1/2 horsepower outboard. I also was never again reminded to make sure I chained my engine. Life at Sandy Pond was once again
great.
Before Dad passed away, we had an occasion to talk about the lost motor. He said he had been so ashamed and embarrassed that he had contemplated not
returning to Sandy Pond. We agreed that it was good thing that he did.
PS: That 12-foot Arkansas Traveler is today owned by a close friend and rests beside a small creek waiting for my friend to return and challenge the fish
near Gouverneur, NY. He insisted on paying me $100 – which is more than my grandfather paid some 60 years ago.
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