Originally published in the Walla Walla Union Bulletin, August 10th, 2024.
It felt odd sipping whiskey in a dimly lit bar with the sun riding high at two in the afternoon. Not so strange for a Saturday in my college years, but somewhat out of character for a middle-aged man, without context. The occasion was celebratory. Local author Dennis Dauble and I made small talk and discussed his fine day of book sales following a signing for his new release, “A Rustic Cabin,” a book sharing the follies and fortune of owning a log cabin and a small slice of heaven on a remote forest stream.
Dennis is best known for his fishing literature. Hence, it was only natural that our conversation evolved from his cabin book to fly-fishing and the Columbia River sockeye salmon run that was just turning on.
“They’re here. Looks like 4,000 over McNary yesterday and increasing daily,” Dennis noted.
“Any predictions on the run this year?”
“At least average, maybe a bit above. You should come out with me this week. I’ve got to get on the water, but my daughter just returned the boat I gave her, and I need to find a place to store it ASAP. The homeowner’s association won’t allow it to sit at my place, and the boat storage has quadrupled in price over the past two years.”
A friend subtly offering that kind of information amidst a routine fishing conversation highlights their mastery of piquing one’s interest. Before divulging any details of the vessel, Dennis mentioned his need to move it without offering a sale, which led me to believe the boat was both valuable and of interest to me.
“Oh? Tell me about this boat,” I replied, forgetting the sockeye fishing offer entirely.
“It’s just a little 12-foot Starcraft with an 8-horsepower outboard that I used to buzz around in while steelhead fishing. It’s a good boat for a calm day on the river.”
Whiskey on an empty stomach was a poor precursor to this conversation. Anyone who has ever owned a boat knows there is no justifiable “need” for one, save for Dennis and another friend, Chas, who both get their time and money’s worth out of their fishing vessels. On the other hand, I knew perfectly well the limited use I would get from a small boat. Still, the hamster jumped on the wheel and spun my mind into thoughts of hard-to-reach bird hunting spots, should the boat be capable of navigating the Snake River. Visions of a black-and-white setter on the bow with her ears flapping in the breeze and a classic double-gun resting on the front seat as we motored toward remote pheasant habitat was all the convincing I needed.
Dennis must have seen that I was on the line, but being a conscientious man, he allowed me some slack and changed the subject. “I’ll send you a couple of photos tonight.”
That evening, a text message revealed a photo of the boat under a navy-blue canvas cover, parked snugly beneath the pines along Dennis’ driveway. Additional images arrived via email identifying a well-loved Starcraft with freshly restored wooden bench seats, the bottoms painted with the original (or nearly matching) turquoise interior scheme. My gravitation to nostalgia and restoration projects and the quality work Dennis had done on the bench seats sealed the deal.
“I think I need to look at that boat. I’m off work this coming Wednesday. I can drop in if you need to move it sooner than later,” I replied.
“Wednesday will work. Be here at 9:30 a.m.”
Upon arriving at Dennis’ home, the little boat’s homemade trailer was the most eye-catching piece of the package. Rusty red tube steel was crafted into a perfect boat-shaped frame with dry-rotted rubber rollers and cushions. The axle was crafted from an old vehicle I-beam front end, possibly from a junkyard street rod, and welded together in the center with four slabs of flat three-eights-inch steel. Two long-traveling leaf springs supported the trailer frame, and the entire rig rode upon tires large enough to fit my pickup. The axle was overkill for a 120-pound riveted aluminum dinghy, but a stout trailer axle is far better than a weak one, and this one would be easy to repair when needed.
Throwing off the blue canvas cover revealed a 12-foot Starcraft “Super Star” that was in far better condition than I had expected. Starcraft made the Super Star model between 1968 and 1972. This one is titled for its inaugural year. Most old metal boats have dinted floors and support ribs, among other maladies they incur from reckless handling, mainly due to being lightweight. The outside white paint was scraped and chipped, and the Starcraft emblem was missing from the starboard side, but that was it. She was perfectly clean otherwise, and Dennis’ phenomenal craftsmanship on the bench seats and transom made it look that much better.
Starcraft marketed the Super Star on its durability, stability, versatility, ease of handling, and affordability. Its price tag was $255 in 1968, which translates to around $2,300 today. Surprisingly, this is comparable to the sale price of similar aluminum boats, which seems like a deal, considering a nice standup paddleboard will cost you a grand these days.
Dennis revealed the 1985 Evinrude 8-horsepower outboard with two three-gallon fuel tanks hidden in the outdoor storage beside the house. The vintage two-cycle was compact and lightweight at only 56 pounds (according to Evinrude specifications). Still, as Dennis and I dropped it onto the transom, the trailer tongue quickly rose skyward. Alternatively, hitching the trailer to my truck allowed us to attach the motor and give it a once-over. It had not run in a couple of years, and the cowling appeared worn from nearly 40 years of sun exposure. Beneath the cowling, however, was a cleaner little two-cylinder engine than I had seen in many years of operating and maintaining a fleet of working boats as a fish biologist. Suffice it to say, I had seen enough.
“You can think on it for a while,” Dennis allowed, not wanting to be too pushy.
“I’ll take her!” I exclaimed. Truthfully, I find classic toys irresistible. They feed my personality type, which is fascinated with history and tradition, and passionate about restoring quality-made, old-fashioned sporting equipment.
With a quickly-scribbled check and some signatures on the bills of sale, I was out the door with my new antique toy.
The hour and fifteen-minute drive allowed ample time to proceed through the gamut of emotions from excitement to guilt. Depositing that cash into home maintenance or other necessary expenses throughout the year would have been the responsible thing to do. However, Ali and I shared a frank conversation the day prior about our unrelenting prioritization of responsibilities over living life and suffering the consequences of such choices. We chose the homestead life, and each have a side gig or two tacked onto day jobs, but there is more to life and time to live it if we just stop for a moment. That conversation resonated as I inspected the boat in Dennis’ driveway.
I spent the following two weeks tinkering before testing her seaworthiness, which was a welcomed distraction from the mundane summer chores. Boats and trailers are an upkeep and customizable bottomless pit. And, like a classic muscle car junkie, I identified updates that meant little to the boat or trailer’s performance but enjoyed the fiddling. Rubber pads, chains, winch, lighting, cleaning fuel tanks, and finally starting the engine all felt like worthwhile improvements for safe and reliable use.
“I’ll bet I have to take the motor to a marina for repair,” I told Ali the morning I set out to fire it up. Outboards that sit around often refuse to start for countless reasons. Nevertheless, I hooked up a fresh tank of fuel, primed the line, and pulled the cord.
The good news was that the compression felt great. The bad news was that 10 minutes later, the engine had not even pretended to fire. I had no idea what the idle adjustment meant or how often or long to choke the carburetor. I was learning on the fly. I was sure that old fuel likely needed to be pushed through the carburetor, so I made a series of adjustments while squeezing and holding pressure on the siphon bulb and struggling to pull the cord with weary arms.
Finally, she bucked like a stubborn foal sending a warning kick as you try walking behind it. Also, like breaking a horse, the motor continued to kick and stall, as if refusing the saddle, but understanding the purpose of my efforts. After half an hour, the little engine came to life and ran as smoothly as new. It even shifted smoothly, without grinding or lurching. Last was to ensure the water pump worked, so I ran it at various speeds in a water trough for another half an hour to ensure that it “peed” the entire time.
The final test was ensuring engine functionality, which I had accomplished much earlier in the day than anticipated. So, I tossed my black-and-white setter, Yuba, and some fishing gear in the truck and headed for the Port of Garfield boat launch for the maiden voyage.
Starcraft specifications suggest a 500-pound weight capacity. The fuel, motor, and I comprise over two-thirds of that, and she struggled to get “on plane” with two-thirds of the payload stacked in the back of the boat. However, with a little weight shift toward the middle, the bow came down, and the boat moved faster than I could paddle a kayak, which was a win in my book.
Yuba and I puttered around on the backwater at Deadman and Meadow Creeks, catching a few smallmouth bass and feeling out the motor operations. I focused on the boat’s handling while Yuba built confidence that the boat was not simply a vehicle of certain death. While not the most powerful on the water or a threat to breaking any speed records, she was worthy of being a “whatever” vessel, meaning if I could conjure it, she could handle it sans alacrity. And, as Dennis mentioned, tackling the open river was best left to calm days.
With a successful float test behind us, Yuba and I drove home with the windows down and the radio cranked. The moment sent me back to the “good ole days” driving home on a muggy summer evening, wet, muddy, and tired from catching too many bass on the Shenandoah River. That drive typically included grabbing a 12-pack and burger meat for an impromptu barbecue with my buddies, which sounded mighty fine.
Yuba stood on the truck door with her head and shoulders out the window, her jowls and ears competing for the most dramatic flap in the 90-degree heat. The fishing days with my old Sears and Roebuck 10-foot boat, which was like a Starcraft without flare and class, came to mind. It was suddenly clear that the Super Star had floated me back to when life was truly carefree. This sought-after feeling is something that many of us seek in vintage items, be it a shotgun, bamboo fly rod, muscle car, etc. I never expected it to come from the little Super Star, nor did I expect to enjoy owning it so much more at that moment. The guilt of using funds “better spent elsewhere” instantly sank into the waters of “no regrets.”
Zeta at the vet, June 2019, to have cheat grass awns removed from both anal glands.
Palouse Upland Media 