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CONFESSIONS OF AN OLD-BOAT JUNKIE
These Days, Getting a Fix is Easier Than Ever

By Marty Loken, Reprinted from Rudder Magazine

The first inkling that I might have a Problem came somewhere in North Dakota, 24 hours into our 10-day expedition to fetch an undocumented, trailerless pattern boat 2,137 miles from home. Not only had I paid decent money for the derelict, but here we were, criss-crossing the breadth of North America, heading for an obscure corner of Ontario to collect a boat-shaped pile of firewood most folks would abandon by the side of the road. Golden light reflected on rugged buttes as we flew past Painted Canyon, which my ever-loving partner, Mo, had hoped to explore. The awakening moment unfolded when she asked, with a delicate touch of the scalpel, if we "might actually stop to see something before the end of this trip?" Or words to that effect. Obsessively hell-bent when vectoring in on a rotten boat, I was in target mode, eyes ahead, sniffing a dream on the horizon...but her question stuck and in coming days I began to wonder: Was it possible, just maybe, that my lifelong affection for old boats, and especially the most pathetic examples, was out of control? Had I become an old-boat junkie, incapable of enjoying life's customary rewards?

That was eight years ago. Since the early hints of boundless addiction, I have raced down many other highways, propelled into the night by caffeine, to drag home countless projects that were full of promise...at least at the moment of collection. Today, I will admit to ownership of two dozen boats--or boat-shaped objects, or yard art--from 8 to 33 feet. I have a fondness for each one, but I daydream about boats that got away and better examples that might be around the next bend. That's how addiction works: You can never get enough of a bad thing. But lately I've been pausing to consider why I collect rotten boats in the first place. I've also questioned the extent to which I might be totally nuts, and whether my sickness could bring on some kind of unwanted intervention. (I'm not imagining family members coming at me with a tight-fitting suit. The intervention would more likely involve bank tellers waving overdraft notices.)

During today's brief time-out, I thought I'd do some research to see if I'm alone or hopefully just another slightly out-of-control purveyor of keen junk. Paging through members' listings in the ACBS Directory, I was encouraged to see lots of folks with three-inch lists of boats, but I was dumbstruck by the number of members who appear to possess a single classic boat. That is, just one! Unless they are hiding the rest of the fleet from their spouses, it's easy to imagine that these one-boat people have been happily married only once; that they somehow get along with just one vehicle (probably not a steroidal SUV) and that they're perfectly content to keep it simple. One car or small truck, one boat, one cat or dog, maybe a nice garden, a tidy garage and a savings account that isn't zeroed out. I'm envious in many ways, but what an alien concept!

Is it possible to be truly satisfied with just one boat? Are all of you one-boat members as contented as I imagine-or is it just that your partner will perform unauthorized surgery if you drag home additional projects?

Although it's too late to lecture me into sensibility, I am here to admit my overdoses, and to ask a few simple questions:

1) Can you identify with my uncontrolled passion to collect old rotters? (If so, are we committable, or simply far-sighted collectors whose genius will only be recognized long after we've been buried in one of our rotten boats?)

2) If your boat collection is under control, do you sometimes have an urge to fill your backyard with additional projects...but you realize, because of a wisdom gene I clearly lack, that you'll never find time to restore all of them? Or...

3) If you own just one old boat, are you really, truly satisfied? (And how does that work, exactly?) How can you avoid the temptation to collect and restore at least one more?

When I take a harder look at my own rap sheet, several patterns emerge. Above all, I cannot stand to see a nice, old boat suffering from utter neglect. (Far better that I neglect it, instead of some thoughtless stranger.) Also, as a serial collector, I appreciate too many different styles of old boats, since my menagerie represents a Who's Who of various designers and boat types-from 8-foot dinghies to ancient mahogany runabouts, a 30-foot salmon troller-turned-cruiser, several vintage hydroplanes, a flat-bottomed cedar skiff, two sailboats and, dominating all other categories, a sizable armada of classic-glass runabouts and small express cruisers from the 1950's. My appetite is insatiable and, at least once a week, I find myself craving more!

A friend and fellow addict e-mailed me recently, asking plaintively: "Will the Wanting-Wanting-Wanting ever end??" (This gets to the core of it, but if he was seeking a cure he would have asked anyone but me.)

Members of a local classic-boat club, confronting their addictions head-on, suggested a NO MORE BOATS! ("NMB") sub-chapter, which would offer non-judgmental, confessional meetings for the most hopeless cases. Fortunately, after a flurry of e-mails promising repentence, "NMB" suddenly morphed into "NEED MORE BOATS!" and we were back in the game-collecting without restraint.

In the same club, several members who are sensitive to domestic challenges faced by fellow junkies have devised halfway houses for those who cannot be stopped. These "Park-'n-Hide" lots, out in the country and somehow coincidentally in meth-lab neighborhoods, are covert locations where some of us squirrel away beloved future restoration projects.

The sickest thing about my addiction is this: I can give you a perfectly believable explanation for why I must have every moss-covered, frog-inhabited, nurse-log rotter I drag home or tow over to the Park-'n-Hide lot. Every boat has a place in my universe of potential needs, and my universe is a big place. Also, because I'm involved professionally in boat restoration, I can potentially convert any old pattern boat or faded tub toy into a paying gig. Further, with one of my specialties being restoration of classic-glass boats, I am free to exhume dozens of affordable relics from their blackberry-vine graveyards. The wood in these boats is always gone-rot-infested, weak--but the fiberglass shells seem to last forever, making classic-glass boats ideal for cheap outdoor storage while awaiting restoration.

While I have restored a lot of old boats, and financial return is possible when I find a customer who will adopt one of my rotters and sponsor its restoration, profit motive is not the driving force behind my need to collect. Clearly, I salvage old boats in order to "find good homes for them"-a rationale that is half true since many of the boats are passed along to fellow members of the tribe. As a student of vintage-boat designs, I also have a sincere if warped appreciation for off-center or eccentric orphan designs--rarely Blue Blood standards of the old-boat realm. (I also like 1950 bathtub Hudsons, ancient Fiat Topolinos and Morris Minor panel vans. You get the picture: I'm totally impractical!)

Today, old-boat junkies have electronic enablers. Online auctions, discussion groups and web-based classified ads provide a hit anytime we need it, 24/7. In addition to associations such as ACBS, FiberGlassics and our local Northwest Classic Boat Club, there are more marque clubs for those with specialized diseases, and countless message boards that allow us to share photos, sell stuff to one another, tell stories of near misses or boat-collecting triumphs. It's all too easy to remain plugged in, hooked up, at all hours of the day and night-never missing a chance to get the rush we clearly savor. I belong to seven boat-related clubs and three classic-car organizations. The disease knows no bounds.

So the old-boat habit has also become an addiction to computers, online forums, free-advertising sites and other platforms that effectively support our need to know, to collect minutia, to browse, to get jacked up one more time before bed. These days, the monitor glows day and night. I cannot start or end the day without checking to be sure there's nothing new on the primary bookmarked sites: eBay, FiberGlassics, Northwest Classic Boat Club, Craigslist, Boat Trader Online, ACBS Classifieds, plus others I peruse at least once every few days.

Naturally, when you look for something, you're liable to find it. So the daily web-surfing often leads to e-mails and phone calls, long drives to inspect the goods, a flurry of bank withdrawals and doubts about how I'll rationalize the latest orphan I've dragged home. (Fortunately, Buyer's Remorse is soon eclipsed by a twitchy appetite for the next potential acquisition.)

The collecting disease would be fairly simple if confined to boats themselves, but old-boat passions spill over and I find myself bookmarking eBay listings for deck hardware, old engines, vintage steering wheels, bronze propellers, crinkled boat plans and potentially collectible magazines. In our final stages of addiction, we pursue boat-related emblems, signage, old advertisements and (worst of all) toy boats and motors that cost far more than the real thing. Overcome during a moment of abnormal clarity, I recently purged my collection of vintage model boats, and for days after the sale I floated through a fog of discomfort, like a drugged atheist held captive in a monastery.

So, what are we to conclude from these confessional ramblings? Are we truly sick, or is our need to collect is actually a healthy sign-evidence that we simply appreciate fine designs of the past and we like to see them preserved? Certainly, we enjoy the fellowship of others who share our passion-and what's wrong with that? (When you're a junkie, you need all the junkie friends you can round up.) Maybe we're just virtuous recyclers, helping conserve precious global resources by restoring and reusing old treasures that society has cast aside?

Or are we hopeless, utterly impractical dreamers, afraid to admit that we are beyond help? (If we weren't collecting old boats, we'd probably be like others who lust after antique fountain pens, old knives, bakelite cameras or other esoterica.)

One thing is for sure: We are not alone. And, generally speaking, we are not seeking a cure. Most of us have no defense; we stand guilty as charged, and eager to continue collecting more and more...and more.

There's a bumper sticker you've all seen, to the effect that "The Guy Who Dies With the Most Toys...Wins." I've always winced at that slogan, because it conjures the simplistic image of a Big Spender-someone with two wallets and a huge ego, buying aimlessly. In my own twisted mind, my personal goal has not been to "win" or simply have the biggest collection of junk, but to help preserve a lot of nicely designed old boats-whether I personally oversee their restoration or I pass them along to other boat-hungry souls. At least that's been the rationale. But the real thrill of this game, I conclude, is not the possession of old boats but the pursuit-the years of stimulating research; the thrill of chasing and being chased, of meeting new people and opening their treasure chests. The decades of shared appreciation for things well-conceived and crafted. And, of course, the final restoration and rebirth of a beautiful classic boat-floating buoyantly at the ramp, bright and pretty, ready for years of additional service.

My good friend Curt Erickson is an old-boat addict of the highest order. In a moment of self-examination, Curt diagnosed our advanced and mutual condition with great clarity: "You know," Curt observed, with his trademark twinkle, "I've spent most of my life looking all over the countryside for some old geezer with a barn filled with boats. And now, after all these years, I realize I am that old guy!"

I can relate, Curt. I can certainly relate.