Mate Murphy rides again to what end?! It has easily been a whole year, since the throws of Hurricane “Isabel” and the “monsoonal heavy rains” of this last summer. Each new day and season seems to usher-in some very new and even less familiar, catastrophic maritime event for us to pontificate. Continental plate shifts, global warming, and the incredibly difficult to imagine Asian Tsunami that, even at this writing, continually seems to escalate in it’s toll of the loss of human souls. Where we as boaters find our passion and fulfillment in our hydro-indulgences, we nevertheless are of the mind-set to realize, just how thoroughly and profoundly this medium shapes our lives, our existence, our very physical constitution, as-well-as the more etherial effects of the moon, tides, weather, and all of it’s irregularities as being THE MAJOR component in our existence, and quite often, even our demise.

As I sat down to approach the writing of this article, I started with the intent of writing something about the “water” in my veins, and somehow, seemed to have missed that part completely as my words made way to the paper. It would seem that this will be more of a reflective treatise on what it is exactly, that shapes the life of an individual who has been afflicted by that “Siren Song.” So from that point of departure, I depart. . .I was born and raised on the St. Clair River, which separates Lake Huron from Lake St. Clair. Historically called the “Bluest” water in the world, with a “Stealthy” eight-mile an hour current, and cool, cold, cold-water year ‘round. In fact, I have walked the distance across the ice to Canada during the winter as a kid, and if you happen to be one who is fond of ice flows, you could certainly see them here come each spring thaw. Yep! “The good old days” when winter was winter, and summer was spring. If this is beginning to sound a bit on the nostalgic side, then it probably is. My memory stores hurtle me back to a time when Lake St. Clair would be littered with icefishing shanties. . .a stringer laden with Pan sized yellow or white perch, an occasional pickerel or sturgeon even, making the whole event worthy of a prolonged fish story at the dinner table complete with “hand animation” about the one that got away. Once in a blue moon the landscape in those memorable days might even be adorned with a set of “ratty sails” skidding across the Icy landscape,. . .not of a buoyant nature, but rather, cleverly attached to a skeleton of a hull with sleigh-blades in lieu of a keel.. “Ice Sailing,” as-it-were, was every bit as popular as a skate board was in its day. Something appearing much like a wind surfer might today. “Popular mechanics” was the reading matter of the time, and the “Do-it-your-selfers” took great pride in constructing their first “Plywood Runabout”. . or even one of those more hybrid “Ice-sailing-craft” to extend their habitually short boating season well into the many months of anticipated “Frozen Tundra” to come.

Growing up in this northern geographic was only part of the equation. The other ingredient clearly belongs to my dad, a 48 year veteran mariner on the Great Lakes, a USCG licensed Master of unlimited tonnage. Dad was usually gone for at least 9 months out of the year, and some seasons seemed to never end, as he would run loads of coal from Detroit to Toledo through the winters. Big John, as he was called, (even after I grew about 4 inches taller then he by age 12), was somewhat adamant that I should refrain from following his example as a career choice. If you sail for a living I will disown you!” was something I heard on more than one occaision, but I did nevertheless manage to spend two summers, “deck-handing” while in college! I Should mention that over the course of these formative years, I had done some blowboating before joining the ranks of the “stink-potters” (power boaters).

It would seem to me, the ingredients that make us feel a sense of boaterly well-being, are those we gather along the way. . whether they be of a catastrophic nature, extreme climate, or simply those warm and fuzzy feelings that choose to stay residential in our memory stores. “Love the smell of twocycle oil in the morning” It is very much like “you can take the kid out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the kid”. or better yet, “you can take the kid out of the water but he’s probably gonna come back wet. . more than once!!!