Arrrrgh

The Old Man launches from where he left off.  The contractor engaged to build the USS Neversail had some unique ideas about boat building.  At least they seemed that way to me.  Most of the rowboats I had seen were aluminum with lots of rivets and all painted in an olive drab finish.  I suppose at the princely rental rate of 50 cents per half day, I shouldn't be so picky.  This fellow built up the sides of the boat with overlapping boards, much like lapped siding on a house.  I assume he steamed them to achieve the proper bend to form the bow. He then cut plywood to fit the shape of the gunwales and screwed the whole deal together.  After adding 4 seats, his part of the mission was accomplished.

Dad had this "rough" upturned on a couple of saw horses under one of the dutch elm trees in our back yard. It fell to the lot of the capt'n and his first mate to do all of the sanding, caulking, and painting.  Caulking meant something vastly different from today's tubes of silicone enhanced wonder goo and the guns that make the process so efficient.  We caulked by stuffing the seams between the boards with some gooey rope, and then had to press putty into place to further seal the joint.  I use the term "we" loosely...my job was to "keep the rope coming, bud".  I fed it to Dad as he poked and smoothed.  As the month wore on, I began to wonder if we would have to chip ice off of the lake to make our maiden cruise.  Occasionally, I'd see Mom at the kitchen window, shaking her head and smiling.  Dad would take a break to stretch his back and relight his pipe and he'd look at our work and say, "Ain't she a beauty?".  "Yessir" I'd respond.

Tragedy struck during the sanding phase of our shipbuilding career.  I've already mentioned how Dad had the greenest thumb of anyone I've ever known.  He could take a patch of  red clay, some seeds, and a pickup load of stable muck, and feed us for an entire winter.  There are trade-offs in life.  His carpentry and tool skills were as weak as my thumb is far from green.  He hadn't learned the magic words, "sanding block" yet.  He just took a sheet of sandpaper and had at it.  While sanding away, I heard him grunt and then say a pretty pronounced, "Arrrrrrgh".  He was staring at his right hand and blood was beginning to stain the port side of our vessel.  His sanding activity had driven a splinter complete through his little finger about 1/4 inch from the tip.  Entering on one side, it poked it's tail out the other.  After his, "arrrrgh", he said, "We've got to go."

We hopped in the car and headed over town to Lyle"s Drug Store.  The druggist, called Dr. Lyle by everyone, in that day and time didn't just dispense medicine.  He would remove stuff from your eye, bandage small cuts, and remove splinters.  No charge, of course, except for any materials he may use.
Dr. Lyle pulled the splinter through Dad's finger, applied a little iodine, and bandaged the wound.

We got home and the shipyard was closed for the day.  When time came to paint our ship, Dad said he was going to leave the little blood stains on her.  He said it made the boat a little more his.  I didn't understand it then......I do now.

We 3 had a fine time with the boat.  We rowed that old girl all over Bedford County Lake, fishing, laughing, dreaming, and relishing life.  I remember how safe I felt.

I can't recall what ever became of that old boat;  I'm sure Dad sold her after her usefulness had passed, but whoever bought the USS Neversail could never remove Dad's "brand", and when the boat finally rotted away, she took a part of him with her.

Aye, aye, captain....some day I'll ask, "Permission to come aboard, sir".