Dad, I want to get my boat license.”
I liked Atticus’s goal, but we had a problem.
A few months back, our 1956, 10hp Johnson was smashed by a tree. There was something about that quirky old engine that I liked. It was no thrills. No fluff. Simple and easy. Pull the cord and go. So I started searching. That’s when I discovered the Antique Outboard Motor Club’s summer event in Stafford, Virginia – a meet-up of sorts where old timers sell and swap their vintage engines.
It was a gutsy move for a Saturday, but I headed north on I-95. Before I left, I chatted up each boy.
“Who wants to go with me?”
“Sounds weird, Dad – hanging out with a bunch of strangers?”
I set out on my own.
“Just make sure it goes fast, Dad. Be great if we could pull a tube behind it. We need something that rips.”
The pressure was on. I needed to come home with a rocket. But it wasn’t only about the motor. I wanted a dose of expertise – generational knowledge that seems to be disappearing by the second. That’s what I told my boys, “I’m going to rub elbows with the pros.”
“You mean a bunch of old dudes,” Levon said.
“Hey,” I nudged him, “even chrome gets dull.”
I arrived and parked outside a grassy clearing where guys were already set up. Right away, I saw their payload. Elgins and Johnsons, Evinrudes and Scott-Atwaters, Sears and Mercury Marines. Some were gleaming on stands with fresh coats of paint. Others were laid flat on tarps or still in the beds of pick-up trucks with dust and cobwebs clinging to their once-proud exteriors. It was a used car lot, but there were no silver streamers or sale signs – more rust and patina than anything. Still, these were real treasures here with new hoses and updated carburetors. Each one whispered a story of lazy days on the water and the thrill of the catch. If you wanted one, you needed to hear its tale, look at its scars, and learn a thing or two.
To get my footing, I made a loop, introducing myself as I went and wishing my boys had come along. Each new acquaintance told me about some tune-up trick I should try. I helped a gentleman, who must have been ninety, unload three engines from his trunk. It was surreal, walking around, touching outboards that looked like they’d spent their early life on Buggs Island Lake right after World War II. When I thought I’d seen it all, another sawhorse and motor went up. There’s a magic about picking out the gold from the litter, kicking tires, reading graphics, and spotting what you want. It might be a motor or a fishing pole. Ultimately, something speaks to you, and you hear yourself saying, That’s the one.
I strolled some more and zeroed in on my target, a sleek 1964 Fastwin 18 hp, Evinrude. Sitting proudly on a homemade stand, the paint was faded, and a beat-up armadillo sticker was on its left side, but it was a Corvette compared to our old 10hp, almost double the umph – a real torpedo. With the cover off, two guys started pointing and talking, explaining the low and high idle. “You just turn that screw and lock it in.”
A guy with a leathery tan said, “You can ski behind that motor. I used to haul my kids all the time.”
For another ten minutes, I hovered around the Evinrude, pretending to casually admire other models, but I knew I’d found the right one for Atticus and Levon.
As I was getting ready to put the engine in the back of my car, someone said, “Ya know, there’s a starter over there. It’d sure beat the heck out of yanking that cord until your arm falls off.”
It seemed a little unorthodox, but as the guy explained the benefits – the convenience, the reduced wear and tear – a seed of curiosity was planted. Here was an opportunity to not only get a great motor but to improve it, to breathe new life into it with a touch of modern ingenuity.
So I listened and made another deal, and then, right by my car, the three of us – the seller, me, and another older dude – jumped in, turning screws and working wrenches. Together, we installed the starter motor on the spot. “Now, you just need a solenoid and a battery, and you’re done.”
I dragged the bad boy into the garage and started doing surgery. I ordered a solenoid and installed a new ignition switch. Levon held a flashlight. Atticus steadied the motor as we wired everything with zip ties and heat shrink. Later that day, we got out on the water, and I hit the button. Nothing.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Levon said. “You gotta talk to those dudes again.”
He was right, so we trailered the boat home, and I sent some texts to the group. The boys and I spent the next few hours hunched over the motor, rewiring it all, and replacing the solenoid. On the second attempt, the boat fired right up at the flick of a switch.
As we got up to speed, Levon held onto the gunnels as we ripped past a few kayakers.
“Man, this thing is fast!”
We pulled off by the bank where I showed each boy how to choke the engine, how to prime the gas, and best of all, how to start up that Evinrude themselves. They figured it out – just like I had.
Later that day, the three of us sat down at the dining room table, filling out forms and becoming official members of the Antique Outboard Motor Club. Whatever we’d learned about our sixty-year-old motor, we made a promise to share.
And tomorrow, Atticus gets his boat license.
