Even the greenest apprentice on the jobsite knows that one of the most important tools of the trade is a level. Certainly, these days the old bubble-type, box-beam level is quickly being replaced with the laser level, which is far more accurate when calibrated correctly. Before laser levels became available, I marked a long boot stripe the way I learned from my uncle, with a lightweight string, two straightedges, and a level. I have now become totally dependent upon the laser level when marking a boot on a new boat or a new paint job in service. Setting jig stations and bulkheads is now done with the laser as well. Before we purchased our first laser, my brother, Marty, and I would set the entire boat up with a box-beam level. Any carpenter worth his or her salt knows that even a brand-new level does not read exactly the same when vertical or horizontal edges are rotated 180 degrees. The problem becomes worse if the level has been dropped, which can happen in any busy workplace. This common discrepancy forced us to mark one edge of the level with multiple arrows and only use that edge to retain consistency. As a result of these indicating arrows, we began referring to the tool as an “Indian Level.” “Hey Mike, hand me that 6-foot level. No, not that one. I need the Indian Level.” Not long ago, I was informed by one of our more fragile new hires that “Indian level” was an offensive term. My God. Who in the hell raised these children? Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. The Village.

Just inside the front door of our home, on the wall to the right, hangs a large, signed and framed print by Russ Smiley titled “101 fish of the South Atlantic.” I first saw the piece in the early ‘70s, hanging in the companionway of the 53 Hatteras, Duo-Fast, that we were converting into a dive boat at the old yard. It is a remarkable watercolor of the many fish we learned to catch and harvest as kids, growing up in South Florida. When my kids were toddlers, I would carry them over in my arms to that print, point to one of the 101, and ask them to name it. I can still see the big smile on their little faces when they got it right. I now play the same game with my grandkids. There are quite a few fish in the grouper family on that print, the largest of which is, of course, the jewfish. Says it right there under the fish. Oops. Can’t say that anymore. Someone was offended and the fish has now been renamed the “goliath grouper,” handily retaining an Old Testament reference. I expect to get a knock from the Feds with CNN backup any day now, hauling me off to jail in my pajamas and confiscating the abhorrent exhibit as my grandkids scream for clemency.

When I first went to work in the boatyard, learning to build, repair, and run the boats that provided a living for our family, Dad made sure that I became familiar with the latest in marine-engine gadgetry, which included the Glendinning Automatic Synchronizer. Introduced in 1971, the Glendinning synchronizer has now gone the way of so many simple, virtually bulletproof mechanical devices, all but forgotten in this age of digital circuitry and electronic interfacing. A tach drive cable from each engine was fed into a magic, gold-anodized box. Push-pull cables were attached to sliding rods exiting on the ends of the box, one for each throttle. The installer chose which of the port or starboard throttles (depending upon the captain’s or the owner’s preference) would be the “master” control. When you pushed the “On” button and shoved the remaining throttle all ahead, it would match the engine speed of the master over the entire rpm range and was referred to as the “slave.” Say what?! Have mercy. Did you say master and slave? Uh-oh. Here they come again, the seething PC media circus, jumping from their little clown cars and shouting in unison: “File the injunction to shut this terminology down immediately. Seize the Glendinning manuals as exhibit “A,” burn down the cities, key the Teslas, and demand that Glendinning pay reparations. And, as part of the settlement, decree that all synchronized twin-engine throttles will heretofore be referred to as “privileged” and “marginalized,” respectively. This judgment will apply to all old D/X marine A/C air handlers as well.”

Sundays are a time to exhale at our house. My normal routine is to sleep a little later, walk to church, and walk home for our one-day-a-week, Big ‘Ole Sunday breakfast. After bacon, fried eggs, grits, marmalade toast, and a second cup of coffee, I head down to the yard to check on things, assuring my wife that I won’t be long. While I’m gone, Julia usually goes online to view the obituaries from the previous week and cruise Realtor.com or Zillow, to see what’s trending in the surrounding neighborhood. A few Sundays ago, when I returned home from checking the dock lines and collecting any UPS or FedEx packages that had been tossed (gently, of course) over our racist, xenophobic fence gate, I heard her voice as soon as I stepped in the door. “Honey, come here.” “What’s up?” I replied. “Mrs. Johnson’s house down the block was just listed. I can’t believe what they’re asking. But what’s really interesting is the photos of her bedroom aren’t labeled master bedroom” she said. “Why the hell not?” I questioned. “Her bedroom is labeled primary suite. I looked it up. Apparently, some people are offended with the term master bedroom,” she continued. “Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute,” I shouted, as Julia gasped at my latest oblivious semantic infraction. “I better discuss this with Dusty tomorrow. I suppose there can be no more master stateroom, master head, or master shower labels on the drawings. We surely don’t want to be part of the problem and it’s not worth offending even one of our customers. Uh … hey, baby doll. Did they mention anything about her plantation shutters?”

Words, just words. Sticks and stones. Richard Pryor made a fortune from dropping the N-bomb and poking fun at white folks. We loved him dearly and laughed hysterically. George Carlin kept us in stitches with words we were not allowed to say. If the Atlanta Braves and the Kansas City Chiefs are ever forced into changing their names, the word cops win, and we all lose. These names are nostalgic tributes to our Indigenous population and signify an innate American toughness that is slowly disappearing in all of us. What happened? How did we become so vulnerable? It seems as if our cultural arrows are now aimed straight at one another and we’ve all become a little out of plumb. It’s past time we set things true again, people. Now hand me that Indian level.

This article originally appeared in the October 2025 issue of Power & Motoryacht magazine.