Your honor, I have an opening statement.
Members of the Power & Motoryacht jury, I assure you I grew up in a loving upper-middle class household. The events which are about to unfold should in no way be misconstrued as torture. Actually it was a great adventure. It’s the story of how I slept in the bilge of my family’s first boat every weekend for a summer.
I grew up in suburban Minneapolis back when the Vikings played football outside like men. Mom was a teacher and dad was an investment banker. One day in the winter of 1982, my father had a bout of cabin fever and spent some of his Christmas bonus on a brand-new 17-foot runabout. The boat had an open bow, fold-down vinyl ski seats and a 4-cylinder MerCruiser sterndrive. Most guys trailer their 17-footer from place to place. But my dad went all in and procured a slip at the biggest marina in the Twin Cities. We now had access to the entire Mississippi river and the St. Croix National Scenic Waterway. The St. Croix is a summer boating paradise devoid of commercial traffic. It boasts big beaches, state parks, steep bluffs and deep blue water.
Every weekend during the summer of ‘82 we made the 35-minute drive from the ‘burbs to the boat, hauled our duffels down the dock and took off. One time we ran 300 miles down the Mississippi to visit grandma and grandpa, past the town where water skiing was invented. On day one of that voyage we were nearly swamped by a guy in a 53-foot Hatteras doing 16 knots or so northbound. We were probably so small he didn’t see us. When dad expressed his displeasure via VHF the skipper of the Hatteras asked where we were going. It turns out we were headed to his homeport. He gladly offered us the use of his 60-foot covered slip for as long as we cared to stay. I still remember sleeping under that 25-foot-tall roof.
Yes, sleeping. My family slept on that 17-foot boat each weekend. When we weren’t attempting Mississippi moon shots 300 miles up and downriver, we would nose up to one of those great big St. Croix beaches along with a hundred other boats Friday afternoon and commence the festivities. Kids of all ages swam, water skied and ran free-range through the 1,600-acre state park with little or no parental supervision. When night came my young parents would fold those vinyl ski seats flat. Mom would lift out the teak deck hatch for the ski hold and line the compartment with my sleeping bag. She’d toss in a pillow and my favorite teddy bear. Yes, I slept in the bilge. In a 17-foot boat. And everything was right with the world.
The July 4th weekend arrived quickly and we once again set our anchors in the sand for three days of adventure. Tan men swilled beer. Women gossiped, smoked and made sandwiches. I think this was before the arrival of salsa in Minnesota. Everything was going swimmingly until the afternoon of July 3 when one kid convinced me to shoot off some illegal fireworks with him. That was fun until the armed game wardens shod in jackboots apprehended us near a backwater. They hauled our kid asses right back to the beach and our beer-swilling dads. I think that’s the last thing I remember about that day.
The Space Shuttle completed its fourth-ever mission on July 4, but few of us knew because nobody had a phone strapped to their face. All this authentic fun was achieved without Siri, YouTube or TikTok. Tik what? Can we go water skiing again before dinner?
I don’t know when the last night I slept in the bilge was because the next winter my dad bought a bigger boat. I would forevermore sleep in a bunk above the waterline. But I did shovel snow off that thing once so my dad could take a client for a ride. 154 weekends later we got an even bigger boat but the essential ingredients for adventure remained in place. And my new stateroom was air-conditioned.
Nothing further, your honor.
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