Preface
A few years ago, I started writing a book about my experiences on the water and my love for boating. This might interest some of my readers since, as boaters, we often have much in common. I intend to publish it on the blog as a series, releasing each installment approximately a week apart.
I believe that having a personal reason for documenting one's life is sufficient motivation, but a stronger case can be made if the writer assumes that their story will interest others. So, why do I think my life might captivate others? For one, many people who are passionate about boats have followed similar journeys, and as we reflect on our experiences, sharing our trials and tribulations evokes a range of emotions that validate our lives. Simple moments like the joy of owning our first boat, the intense fear of being on the water when it might not have been wise, or catching the elusive "big one" that always seems to slip away—these experiences resonate with many. It is for this reason that I have decided to share my life, my love for the water and boats, in writing.
Early Years on the Hudson River
I was lucky to grow up in Irvington, New York, a quaint village on the eastern banks of the Hudson River, about twenty-five miles north of New York City. Irvington has evolved over the years, but the most noticeable changes when I visit now are along the waterfront. The park has expanded using stones from the old Stearns' castle for fill. This castle once stood where Irvington High School is now located. The Turner Lumber Company docks and the site of the Burnham Company have transformed into a collection of shops and restaurants - it's amazing how things have changed. I seem to remember an Irvington Boat Club, as evidenced by the access dock and several boats moored there.
As a child, I recall spending weekends on the riverbanks at Matheson Park, hopping from rock to rock as waves from the Hudson River Dayliner on its way to Bear Mountain splashed over the shoreline.
Fishing off the rocks along the tracks of the New York Central Railroad was a pastime that helped us pass the summer. Nightcrawlers collected the evening before made excellent bait, and many fish were caught. It's curious that I don't remember any striped bass being caught back then. I suppose we never fished during the spring run - we didn't even know it was happening!
In high school, I had a good friend, George Furst. George's dad was our church minister and had a passion for sailing and the outdoors (I recently learned he died in a mountain climbing accident a few years ago). He had a small flat-bottom aluminum boat he converted into a sailboat. This was quite a task, but from what I recall, it had two keel boards, one on each side about mid-ship that could be raised and lowered, a wooden mast, boom, and rudder, and it could sail. It also had a small outboard motor for when it wasn't under sail.
One of my first adventures on the Hudson was a weekend trip from Nyack north to a lean-to on the western shore across from Croton Point. George's dad drove us to Nyack across the Tappan Zee Bridge, where we loaded our camping gear, launched the boat, and headed north along the shoreline. The campsite stay was fun, but the trip home across the river was, to say the least, very frightening. Our plan was to cross the river to the east shore at one of its widest points - the Tappan Zee Bay. With a strong south wind and an outgoing current, the small boat was at the mercy of three-foot waves. As we neared our destination, another problem arose. Those aluminum boats are held together with small rivets at the seams, and some of them had popped. This must have been a common occurrence as George knew exactly what to do - start bailing! When we finally reached the east shore, we put small bolts in the rivet holes and then continued downriver to Irvington. Experiences that lead you to worry about your own kids growing up.
That wasn't our first adventure in the little aluminum boat. On another trip, we sailed north to a small peninsula with plans to spend the night and return the next day. I had purchased an old army hammock at a church rummage sale and intended to sleep in it, suspended from the trees. Everything went smoothly until a summer night thunderstorm hit. The wind and lightning were terrifying. The hammock and I were blown from the tree, and the pouring rain drenched us and all our belongings. The rest of the night was miserable, to say the least. In the morning, we woke up to find some railroad workers trying to pull the boat onto the shore near the tracks. They thought they had discovered a boat that had broken loose during the storm and decided to claim it. It took a lot of convincing from us, two fourteen-year-old boys, to get the boat back.
During my years at Irvington High School my interest in boats grew; so much that I had more of a desire to own a boat rather than a car. That put me in the minority as most boys back then focused on their first car. I can recall the parking lot at school filled with some of the neatest hot rods one could imagine. There was a car club that was into building street rods. Ford A's and T's with a flathead chevy V-8, a bull nosed '46 coupe and the roar of glasspacks. All put together with hard work, money earned at part time jobs and lots of testosterone.
And me? My eyes were focused on a fourteen foot runabout up on sawhorses in my neighbors back yard. I would wonder over there on occasion, often hoping the guy would come out and ask me if I would like it. It was never used and as far as I know it had been there forever. One Saturday morning I knocked on his door and asked about it.
(to be continued)
Part Two
We had an extensive conversation about boats. I wish I could recall his name. He was a pleasant older gentleman who seemed to enjoy chatting with me. A few days later, he called and mentioned that he rarely used the boat anymore and would like to sell it to me. At the time, I was working part-time at Hudson Photographic Industries, a small company by the river, earning about forty dollars a week. My father agreed to lend me the money, which I would repay.
That's often how it goes when buying a boat: someone lends you the money, and you pay it back. The difference back then was that it was interest-free! Well, maybe not entirely. I'm sure my dad was interested in me and was glad to see me with a boat rather than a 350hp hot rod.
We moved the boat into our garage and began working on it. I spent more time on it than on my schoolwork (a story for another time). The boat was made of plywood and needed sanding and painting. I finished the deck with a mahogany stain and spar varnish. The hull was painted with white enamel, and the bottom with blue anti-fouling paint. I bought a windshield and various hardware, including cleats and rub-rails. The steering was a homemade wheel with tension springs on a cable leading to the outboard. It worked well for an outboard not designed for remote steering. The throttle was a makeshift setup with a large pulley and handle, connected by a cable to the motor's throttle—it worked!
Ah, the motor. An old Mercury, then known as Kiekhaefer, made by the same company (they also made chainsaws). Since the throttle wasn't built into the steering handle, my throttle setup was functional. It did have a drawback; to shift gears, I had to leave my seat and reach back to the lever on the motor. Once in gear, I could return to my seat and operate the boat. I'll leave it to your imagination to figure out the issues with this setup.When all was ready I had to borrow a trailer to move the boat to the river where I would moor it.
The village of Irvington had just built a concrete boat ramp, and I might have been the first to use it. Once in the water, I took her on a "maiden voyage" south to Dobbs Ferry and back. My dad joined me, and I recall a look of terror on his face. He was always the cautious type, and I'm sure my presence in his life contributed to his premature white hair. When we returned to Irvington, I had to decide where to dock the boat. We chose to tie her to some piles beside the boat ramp. It still amazes me that no one ever disturbed the boat. Can I compare 1956 in Irvington to today?
I had some wonderful experiences with that boat, exploring the Hudson within its range. Eventually, I needed a car, so I sold the boat to my uncle, who had a cottage on Copake Lake in Columbia County. This arrangement worked well for both of us; he wanted a boat, and I needed money. My last task with it was to fiberglass the bottom for him. This was intended to restore the bottom in a way that would make it last longer (I've since learned that fiberglassing the bottom of a wooden boat can lead to serious issues).
The last I saw of that boat was when he traded it in for a new Starcraft with a 35hp Evinrude. It was an excellent ski boat. I'm sure I used it more than he did, but I sensed his intention was to make it available to the whole family. In later years, that boat provided me with great bass fishing on Copake Lake. One event stands out under the category of "making a fool of yourself." I invited my brother-in-law, Arthur, to spend a weekend at the cabin for some fishing. Early in the morning, we walked out on the dock to uncover the boat. Outboard motors are usually tilted up
when not in use, as was this one. A release lever under the motor had to be moved to lower it into the water. As I leaned over to release it, the motor dropped into position, sending me head over heels into the cold waters of Copake Lake! At 5:00 am, the lakeside community was treated to my exclamation of "son-of-a-bitch!" while Arthur could barely stand from laughing so hard. Lesson learned.
Part Three
My period of owning boats paused for several years while I worked after finishing high school and eventually attended college. During college, I worked at the Tarrytown Boat Club for several seasons, which was both educational and enjoyable. I have a close friend, Bill Karr, whom I've known since kindergarten. We remained friends throughout school and still are today. Bill worked with me at the boat club, and we shared some memorable times. One particular story involves convincing our boss, Harry Beckley, to let us borrow one of his used boats. We had met some young women on a yacht that docked overnight and also a Coast Guard member who wanted to join us. So, six of us got into the boat after work and headed upriver to a well-known bar called Brophys. We had a great night until, on our return in the dark, we broke the motor's drive shaft! Stranded in the Hudson River at midnight, we wondered what to do.
Of course, we flagged down a passing yacht (luckily for us). It was a beautiful sixty-foot vessel. They towed us back to the marina entrance, where we paddled in. It turned out to be an expensive night for Bill and me, as we had to pay Harry for the motor repairs. As I remember, our Coast Guard friend claimed he was "never there, knew nothing, not involved."
At the Tarrytown Boat Club, I met Tommy Taxter. Tommy captained a converted PT boat owned by Lawrence Rockefeller. Every weekday morning, Mr. Rockefeller would arrive at the boat to commute to Manhattan and return in the evening. You might know that Tarrytown was the base for the Rockefeller family (Pocantico Hills). Tommy may have inspired me to pursue my Master's Certificate. He spent time teaching me how to create a deviation table for a vessel's compass. Years later, I finally understood what he meant. It would be nice if we could let those who influenced our lives know how much they mattered. Maybe they do.
For many of us, an interest in boating also leads to an interest in fishing. My interest in fishing grew. I always preferred fishing over going to the beach with my family during vacations. My brother Bob and I spent much of our summer fishing for largemouth bass in a small pond near Irvington. These ponds yielded large fish that would strike at anything. Jitterbugs were excellent surface lures, and we used them often.
One day, we caught a live frog and used it as bait. After hooking the frog through the lip, we let it swim toward a large sunken log. A shadow emerged from under the log, and a bass swallowed the frog whole. As I let the line run out briefly, I heard my brother shouting, "you got the big one." I set the hook and reeled in one of the largest fish I had ever caught.
Some of these ponds were actually private lakes. It took skill to avoid the caretakers while fishing. One lake, known as "Halseys," had many large fish. It was part of a vast estate, and the gardener, whom we called Bernardo, watched over the lake. He was intimidating, and there were many stories about him catching kids fishing. However, he was actually very nice. While fishing alone, he approached me without my noticing and asked what I was doing. My obvious reply was "fishing."
He explained that it was private property but said I could fish if I was careful and should check with him if I wanted to return.
In the 1960s, I attended the State College at New Paltz, majoring in biology. I took a Field Biology course with Professor Heinz Meng, a noted ornithologist who helped restore hawks and falcons in New York State and was a well-known falconer. Later, my business would be named after the knowledge I gained about birds of prey - the osprey.
Field trips during this course introduced me to some of the best trout streams in the country. I had never heard of the Beaverkill, the Willowemoc, or the Rondout. After studying these streams, I became an avid fly fisherman. Much of the time spent on these streams involves identifying insect species that inhabit them. They indicate the stream's "health," marking the start of the food chain. It makes sense that if stoneflies or mayflies are the natural food for trout, then the artificial fly should mimic them. When a "hatch" occurs, the larval form of the fly becomes the adult fly, and the trout feed voraciously.
I spent many evenings catching beautiful trout in these streams. It took hours to learn how to wade a stream correctly and present the fly naturally. Much of my knowledge came from watching and talking to Dr. Meng. Understanding the stream's "biology" greatly enhances your fishing success.
As his student, I was thrilled when he invited me on a trip to the Esopus Creek in Mt. Tremper. We spent most of the day wading various sections, fishing dry flies for rainbows and browns. Moving slowly upstream, casting a Light Cahill or Black Gnat often prompted a rise from a small pool below a rock or log, resulting in a nice catch. Listening to a red-winged blackbird while the water flowed created a serene experience, a key part of fly fishing for me. Perhaps that’s why I rarely fished these streams with others. It was my way to relax.
One of my favorite spots was Chichester Creek, a small tributary of the Esopus. It follows a road from Phoenicia to Hunter. At first glance, one might doubt it harbors any trout. In the summer, it sometimes dwindles to a trickle. However, in the spring, it was delightful to fish, with many small pools containing native brook trout.
Opening day of trout season became a "religious" holiday for me, as did many of my trout fishing experiences. Only a true fisherman might understand this sentiment. I recall some days with temperatures in the fifties, heralding spring's arrival. Others were less pleasant, trudging through snow in the Catskill woods only to find a stream boiling with water and floating ice chunks. Those mornings were spent at the diner, chatting with other fishermen about the coming spring. Over the years, the Esopus has changed. When the weather warms, trout fishermen now contend with "tubers" floating by - so much for my serene and spiritual experience on the Esopus.
Part Four
The year I graduated from college, I got married, and my life changed direction. With a new home and a baby on the way, it became challenging to go fishing as I used to. However, my wife developed an interest in fishing, and we spent many weekends at the cottage on Copake Lake. When we weren't fishing, we were skiing behind the boat. One day we decided to take our baby daughter, Tracey, on the boat. We made a "bed" for her up under the bow and fished while she slept.
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