Michael Rybovich recalls Blue Fin, a legendary 42, and her illustrious and enigmatic captain, Lyman “Sonny” Barr.
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Last night, as I walked to my truck parked in the corner of the back lot, I noticed the shadowy figure of a Yellow Lab sniffing up and down the north dock. After a few seconds, I recognized “Peppa,” Capt. Will Austin’s dog and walked out to greet her. Will runs one of our 65s, Cheryl Anne, and he had just eased her in alongside. Returning from the summer in Virginia Beach, Cheryl Anne is back in the yard for new tanks and a gyro installation. Peppa made the trip south with Will and was obviously glad to be back upon terra firma and back in the yard where she has run and played since she was a puppy. It’s always good to see our customers and captains return from afar and Will and I chatted for a minute about the run south before I gave Peppa a scratch and a hug and headed for the barn. On my way home, I thought of that boat and drifted back to her design, construction and all the great days of fishing Julia and I have enjoyed on her over the years. Boats will do that to you. There are memories and great stories associated with each boat and the captains who ran them, especially when they are one of your own builds.
When I began my journey in this vocation, I started out on the bottom gang. Haul and launch, bottom painting, worm shoes and running-gear work. In those days it was extremely rare that we hauled anything more than 20 years old. Boats just didn’t last as long as they do now. Modern construction methods, repair techniques and materials have given us the luxury of longevity. These days, in the service yard, it is common for us to haul and maintain boats 30 to 40 years old and well beyond, some ours, some from another branch of the boat building brotherhood. All of these gals have a story and part of being a good service yard is knowing the history of each one. Like an old family doctor who knows his patients, the knowledge of who built the boat, the chain of owners and crew, re-powers, re-fits and her fishing career, are all things that help us do a better job with TLC. Those stories are, for the most part, quite colorful, with some bordering on the sensational. After a lifetime in the business, many of us have compiled an encyclopedia of legends, anecdotes and who used to be who.
Of course, as a youngster growing up in a boatyard, I was in awe of every boat captain in the basin. Having a job running a boat where the objective is to go fishing as many days as you can each year was inconceivable to me. How lucky can you get? You get paid to take people fishing on a great boat and someone else foots the bill for food, fuel, tackle and maintenance? Sign my ass up! The captains who fished out of our yard were heroes in my book and I believed every yarn they spun about life on the sea. The boats they ran were, by today’s standards, primitive in power, navigational equipment and creature comforts. The stories of the monster fish they pursued and caught and the harrowing escapes from Davey Jones’s Locker were, to me, the stuff of comic book superheroes. Most of those guys are gone. Only a few remain to drop by the yard for a visit or call from their recliner to check in with me and reminisce. Amazingly, we still take care of some of those boats, sixty-plus years later. Each time we haul one, I embark on that old sentimental journey.
Blue Fin, one of our old 42s, is still afloat and in beautiful shape. Delivered in 1958, she has had only a handful of owners in 66 years and, curiously, only one name. She has always been Blue Fin, though technically Blue Fin IV for her original owner, Ferdinand Roebling. The boat was one of our first to be built, and not converted later, with diesel engines. She had a pair of incline 4-71s which had to be installed askew to centerline to get them under a flush deck house-floor which had been originally designed for big block gasoline engines. Roebling had a captain who was one of the most colorful guys to ever stand at the helm. Lyman Ellsworth “Sonny” Barr steered her from delivery, for over 30 years. In all that time, the boat never had even a Bimini top above the bridge station. My father used to say that that was what was wrong with Sonny. He’d been out in the sun too long. Sonny and Roebling were a pair, and their legendary consumption of fuel far exceeded the burn of the 4-71s. On a return trip from Chub Key, Sonny and Ferdie decided to stop off in Lucaya for a little gambling. They tied her up alongside and went off for a night of fun. While they were rolling the dice, her stern corner caught under the dock as the tide came up, forcing the ocean up through her scuppers and eventually sending her to the bottom. When Sonny and Roebling returned from their escapades, only the tips of the riggers were visible. She was lifted, pumped out and towed home to the yard where the boat was dried out and repaired while the captain and the owner planned their next adventure.
Sonny Barr owned an unpredictable presence in the yard. One afternoon, Raymond Hall and I were stroking Unipoxy on the Blue Fin’s bottom in the center shed. I was back around the starboard shaft when suddenly, the starboard engine lit off, in gear, with the propeller spinning inches from my head. I screamed like a schoolgirl and climbed up to see Sonny, frantically trying to shut her down. In those days, most of our boats had no neutral safety switch. Somehow, he had hit the start button and one of the 6-53s with which she was powered at the time, sprung to life with a belch of two-cycle smoke. Raymond laughed till he cried at Sonny and more so at me, as I spewed four-letter insults at the two of them. At the end of the day, Sonny walked up to me on the north dock with his signature beverage, a tall Mount Gay and OJ. “Here, Michael,” he said. “I know you had a rough day.” After a few pulls on that elixir, everything was right again with Sonny and me, and that concoction became my after-hours cocktail of choice for many years.
We had a big, open work shed between the Cathedral, appropriately named for its pointed-arch roof structure for accommodating tuna towers, and the other two paint sheds. In the fall, when we were slammed with boats returning from the north, the center shed was crammed with work. Routinely, boats had to be rolled slightly on their keels to make way for other boats. We would back the chocks out a bit on one side and push against the other, jamming the chocks in on the high side. One day, amid this procedure with Blue Fin, Sonny decided he would help. He was on the low side of Blue Fin and backed the chocks out. “Coming over Cap,” William Walker yelled, and as William and I pushed, we heard a frantic yell. Somehow, Sonny managed to get his head wedged between the chine and one of the chocks. We rushed over to the low side and pushed her up, freeing Sonny’s unscathed granite head. After making sure he was alright, the three of us laughed for what seemed like an eternity. From that day on, he was affectionately known to the boys on the bottom gang as “Fender head.”
One late Spring afternoon on the south dock, another pure Sonny comedy unfolded. Just before Blue Fin was to head north for Brielle, we were in the engine room for a final check and discovered fuel in the bilge. In a matter of a few days, we pulled her Monel tanks, had them re-soldered, and hurried to get them back in. We were behind as always in the busy season and Johnny pulled Jack Rhodes out of the shop to get the deck in quickly so Sonny could get her north. Sonny happily took the delay as an opportunity to get in a few more rounds of golf. We had just finished sanding the new teak when Sonny arrived from the eighteenth hole to see if we had her ready to go. He stepped aboard and jumped down from the covering board to the deck, forgetting that he still had his golf shoes on. The boys on the south dock yelled, “Sonny, No!” but not in time. Sonny, realizing what he had done, shook his head, and said, “Shit, boys, I’m real sorry.” Three planks were replaced and caulked that afternoon with orders from Uncle Johnny that, “No one goes home until its done.”
In 1989, Sonny retired after 31 years at the helm (with no sunshade) of Blue Fin IV. The boat was sold to John Mecom and Capt. Fred Pennington was hired to run her for John. We trucked her to our small Ryco Marine shop on 28th Street for a major refit and launched her at Spencer’s a year later. After installing a new Hopewell tower, under Spencer’s big shed over the water, Fred put her through her paces, and she shined once more upon the blue Atlantic. We ran her up the ditch and tied her up behind Dad’s house until we could find a slip for her at the Palm Beach Yacht Club. I called Sonny and asked him to come by Dad’s and give her a look when he had time. Sonny showed up, fresh off the back nine, but this time he took his shoes off. We had a laugh at that, remembering that calamity from years before. He stepped aboard and, as he walked through her, tears rolled down those old, weathered cheeks. “Look at her,” he exclaimed. “She’s brand new again, Michael. Better than new.” He gave me a hug and, in pure Bob Hope fashion, managed a sentimental, “Thanks for the memories.”
There are countless more Sonny Barr stories requiring much more space than this column allows but for now, let’s lift a glass of Mount Gay and OJ. Sonny, here’s to you and Blue Fin IV, and if you’re listening while you’re chasing those endless schools of God’s own Tuna, with all the great ones up there, thanks for the memories!
