The Boat

by Gwen Cole

September 9, 2002

Memories of Boating as a Young Girl
In the 1940's & 1950's

Today many parents appear to have difficulty getting their teenagers to go boating with them. By the time they have reached the teen years, the offspring claim to prefer life at home with their friends during the summer months. In my case in the 1940's-1950's, summer meant boating and, if possible, my friends came along for the trip.

When I was 16, I was given permission to invite my boy friend for a picnic cruise on the Sunday after Labor Day. It stormed. The following year I was told I could invite my then current boy friend out on such a holiday. It stormed. Have you ever noticed how many times the weekend following Labor Day is unfit for boating? I became convinced that the invitation was bad luck and precipitated the downfall of my romantic relationships.

Built in Canada in the early 1940's, the boat's cleverly designed interior contained everything a family of four could possibly need. Imagine, a steering wheel and stool, a couch, breakfast nook, bathroom, four bunk beds, a sink, ice box, and a small wood burning stove all fitting into one small, floating space. Best of all, one could live in it and travel around at the same time. Why didn't someone come up with something like this inside of an automobile, I wondered.

The boat was my second home. My special place was forward, on the top starboard bunk. I could look out the porthole as we cruised along at seven knots, and listen to the bow breaking through the water. I remember staring at the shiny, thick, white oil-base enamel ceiling. A favorite diversion was poking holes and draining out the oil from the blisters. I did enjoy painting the boat, and once volunteered to paint the inside walls of the stand-up head. There had to be something better than using a brush and enamel in that confined space. A new invention, paint in spray cans, had just come on the market. What a cinch! I climbed into the head, closed the door, and sprayed. It worked beautifully. The paint hardly ran at all. It took days, and several cans of turpentine, however, to remove all of the white paint specks from me.

When the boat was new, the finish on the outside cabin was beautifully varnished mahogany. Even with care, without covered moorage this finish lasted only a few years. Reluctantly, we painted the cabin white. The decks were a light blue canvas. I can remember the rough surface and many skinned knuckles as I coiled the heavy manila line on the deck and shoved it under the heavy navy anchor.

Another favorite chore was caulking hull seams. I can remember forcing the strip of white caulking fabric into the cracks and covering the seams with some kind of paint, all the while sitting in the dinghy and holding on to the side of the boat. It couldn't have been a very professional professional job considering age, experience, and facilities. However, I was one who stubbornly liked to take on such tasks, especially if my dad said it couldn't be done. In retrospect, we did do a lot of painting and maintenance on our 27-foot by 8-foot cruiser. We would haul her out at Cadranell's on Lake Union and do the bottom scrubbing and painting as a family affair. Her moorage slip was just far enough away from a marine supply store that I, and later my younger sister, became eager messengers for errands to get more tools, screws, paint, and ice-cream cones.

The engine was truly the heart and life blood of the boat. It was always a challenge to see if it would start. If it had been running and stopped, would it start again? Its unpredictability was becoming a certainty. There was a time in 1948 when we were caught in the path of the Edmonds-Kingston ferry. Our engine decided that it had had enough. My baby sister was in a bassinet on the couch and my mom yelled "Hold on!" as the contents of the cupboards came careening down to the cabin floor. Luckily, the ferry had time to swerve to avoid us. Then there was the time just north of Golden Gardens when, off the port bow, a monstrous Chris Craft was aiming straight at us. I can remember reassuring myself that we had the right-of-way. In the end, I swerved to avoid the ship as it sped by us. There was no one at the wheel. I had never heard of automatic pilots before! Again, as if it had gotten the message of a close call, the engine died.

There came a time when enough money was saved to install a larger, more dependable Chrysler Marine engine. It was to become dad's pride and joy. The only problem was that the pilot house floor over the engine was too low to house the beast. Dad solved the problem by cutting a hole out of the floor and covering the engine with a large rectangular box. It was a bit noisy, but provided a great place to stand while piloting. Another advantage was the direct access to the engine. Just lift off the box and the whole top of the engine was exposed.

This arrangement was also handy when pumping the bilge. We had a dandy, four-five foot long aluminum hand pump that, after some priming with water and pulling up and down with the wood handle, would suck up the grey, black ooze from the bilge and release it into a short hose that led out the pilot house door, hung over the deck, and dropped the ooze to the water surface below. I will always remember the bilge with its oily muck. Everything seemed to end up in it, screws, pliers, screwdrivers, wrenches; seldom to be seen again. Every time the engine had problems, dad would put his hands down into that wasteland. When putting wires together or tightening water pumps, I often wondered what kept him from getting a shock. I concluded that the covering of oil on his hands must have prevented such occurrences.

The boat was not equipped with electronic devices. We did not have a fathometer. When in shallow water or entering a harbor, this job was performed by my hanging over the bow and checking out the looks of the bottom. We did have charts and a good compass. In regard to a ship-to-shore marine radio, as far as we were concerned, this was reserved for ocean liners. Shore power was unknown. Who would want anything other than a Coleman lantern and brass oil lamps? A heater was out of the question. Presto logs burning in the stove did the job in the aft cabin and sleeping bags were warm and cozy at night.

My mother made her niche in the galley. With a coffee pot and a few pots and pans she was able to concoct delicious meals. Since it was difficult to keep fresh produce, we usually had canned fruits and vegetables. The log of July 1, 1950, reads Dinner en route from Point No Point to Fisherman Bay. Meat loaf, fried potatoes, mexicorn, vegetable salad, coffee and cookies. Breakfast favorites included French toast, bacon, and cantaloupe, and, when very fortunate, pan-fried trout. We fished and dug clams often. Mom would tease by saying that only those who liked her homemade chowder could come on board. I cannot remember hearing red tide warnings. We also enjoyed Hood Canal oysters, cooking them over a fire until they burst open with their juicy goodness. When on a beach around a campfire we would feast on marshmallows and Somemores. As every Girl Scout knows, this is a graham cracker sandwich filled with a hot marshmallow and piece of chocolate. Of course, meals always taste especially good out in the fresh air, under a sunset sky. Yes, I remember them well.

Coast Guard boardings are nothing new. The 1950 log indicates that we were boarded on June 3 and again on August 4; twice in one season. These boardings occurred when we were on Lake Union and again while traversing the Montlake Cut en route to Lake Washington. I remember the handsome men in their uniforms as they climbed on board. Hurriedly I scurried from one storage space to another to bring out fire extinguishers and life preservers, praying that they wouldn't stop the engine or look into the bilge for anything. On the second occasion there was a Seattle Times photographer present. He later wrote a public interest article, with photographs, for the Sunday Edition.

During my time on The Boat, several possible names were suggested. Once, Patgwen was stenciled on the stern, but erased when mom thought it was too similar to Pacquin lotion. My father threatened to use Hana Nui, which he said meant "Much Work" in Hawaiian. Finally, she was named after my little sister, and christened the Patty B.

In the 1960's, when I was away at school, the Patty B was sold to a gill net fisherman from Friday Harbor. When I inquired, dad said that many changes had been made, and that I wouldn't even recognize her. I tried to find her once, but stopped; realizing that I wanted to remember her just the way she was.

Phil and I are now into our third boat. We have been fortunate to have been able to travel hundreds of miles of coastline along the Inside Passage. On board we have all the modern conveniences, even a computer to use when recording information for future magazines. We continue to make memories of our own.