COLUMN: Outdoor Type: Boats I’ve known on the water store lots of cherished memories

I recall a discussion I had 60 or so years ago with my dad on the way to Kentucky Lake. We had plenty of time to chat on the six- or seven-hour ride down to our beloved fishing hole. Once we were discussing cars, and he at age 50 proceeded to recall every vehicle he had ever owned, the color, make, and other details. That was a list of perhaps a dozen or more. Checking his accuracy was impossible, but as he rattled off car after truck after car, he had the assured tone of a confident memory. There’s little doubt he was nearly right on the money.

Most of my cars and trucks are brain stored, but my memory gets vague on a few. My wife would do better at it. She occasionally reminds me of what happened to this car or that, and I nod and conjure up dusty recollections of them. An issue here is that I’m not a car guy. To me a car is a service contraption, a utility device. I clean them at fairly regular intervals, these days at car washes. When there’s a problem, the service department jumps to my aid. Some of my friends are really into their rides, and I’m sure they could easily spout off their vehicle history.

I do recall being very proud of a used blue Ford LTD my wife and I bought in the ’80s. To us it was luxury vehicles. I fondly remember the salesman’s great line: “Dictators in third world countries drive cars like this.” Good enough for the LaGrange tribe! Actually, we did like that car with its plush seats, smooth ride, and dependable air conditioning. “The boat” was terrible on snow or ice, and once or twice that was a problem.

I got to thinking about actual boats I’ve owned or had access to, and it brought back some pleasant and not-so-pleasant memories. While growing up and frequently a guest at my grandparents’ farm, I recall my uncle’s old wooden boat parked on the nearby Oil Creek bank. It gave us an opening to fish a stretch of the creek that was otherwise inaccessible. Man, that thing was heavy, but it served the purpose.

Then there was a 10-foot aluminum boat my dad had, but someone stole it right out of our yard. Dad was boiling mad about the theft and thought he knew the guilty party. I remember riding with him from our Perry County home over to a nearby tiny town and him bravely marching up to a ramshackle house way out in the boondocks. I was truly concerned for his life, not being sure of what would happen when Dad accused the occupants of thievery. We didn’t get that boat back, but I believe Dad felt somewhat appeased that he faced the alleged culprits, had his say, and walked away unharmed.

Dad soon acquired a pretty much identical ten-footer, which was handy for the little ponds and strip pits we fished. We stored it in the trunk of our car with a red flag adorning the pooched-out rear, carted that thing over hill and dale, and got a lot of use from it, even with its confined quarters. Next might have been a 12-foot Sears v-hull that we toted on top of his car, tied down at the front and back. That boat was present in the ’70s when my father and I caught a giant string of early spring bass at Lake Lemon, near Bloomington, but it was a pain to transport.

While I was at Indiana State a friend and I bought a ten-footer that we used in the strip pits around Terre Haute. The little aluminum craft was one I took my new wife out in, once keeping her overly long. She says I refused to stop fishing long enough to let her use the bathroom. That one has been hard for me to live down. I take my wife’s word that it’s true. Yes, it sounds like something I might do, depending on how the fish were biting. We also took my one-year-old son out in it, tying him to a small chair with a thick life preserver stifling his every move. It’s no wonder he didn’t want to go boating or fishing after that. On the back of a photo my wife took is the caption: “Nathan’s first fishing trip, March 30, 1973 at Raccoon Lake. Didn’t catch anything.” Eventually the boat ended up in my middle son’s care, and he affectionately dubbed it “the sinker.” Its bottom was a patchwork of black tar patches covering the dents and holes.

After moving to Jasper, I bought a blue 14-foot jon boat that serviced my fishing needs for a few years. It had a real trailer, padded chair seats, and a small outboard, a big step for me. I once took my wife out on Patoka Lake in this boat. The water was choppy, someone zipped by, and waves started coming into the boat. That was it for my wife and this too-little vessel, unless we were on small waters.

In his later years, Dad acquired a real bass boat, a heavy, fiberglass 16-footer, from Tyler Boats down near Rockport. Crystal clear is the ’80s memory of that boat’s nearly sinking at Dogwood Lake (Glendale). We were out on the lake in March, rushing the season a bit but struck with cabin fever. The water was ice cold and very few boats were on the lake, but it was a pleasant day.

We motored down our usual path to the lake’s east end through the maze of cut trees that frequently lurked just below the water line. Suddenly we were stuck on a stump of the many that lurked right at the surface, which was a common occurrence. We maneuvered this way and that, shifting our weight here and there, and eventually we slid off and proceeded on our way. We thought we were in the boat lane that was relatively free of obstructions, but not so. Soon we were hung again. That experience proved to be a real adventure. Tune in next time for “the rest of the story.”