They say the two best days in a boat owner’s life are the day they buy it and the day they sell it.
Well, I can tell you that’s not always true. Because, after 15 years, that Maritime Skiff had become a big part of my life. Seeing her go was tough.
That First Love
I remember scouring through ads in the back of local magazines, looking for a Maritime for sale for months. They were quite popular at the time, and those who had them tended to hold onto them. I finally found one, a lightly-used 1890, in the back of The Fisherman. I called the number and left a message.
A week later I was out on the marsh, stalking a pair of black ducks loafing on a salt pond. Just as I got within gun range they jumped, giving me a clear shot. The pump barked once, clearly missing the lead bird. A quick shuck and a follow-up knocked down the trailing duck, and my limit was secured.
My phone rang, buried deep under the neoprene keeping my legs warm and dry. I fumbled through layers to answer and an unfamiliar voice greeted me, “Hi, this is Ron. I’m calling about the Maritime.”
The call was brief but fruitful. I would meet him at his son’s house to look at the vessel, an 18 footer assembled in a Maine shipyard just a few years prior. She was everything I thought she could be, floating motionless with a light dusting of snow.
A few weeks later, I’d meet Ron at the broker’s office, check in hand. I sat there, staring at that slip of paper. “Is something wrong, son?” he asked with the kindly tone old men adopt when speaking to boys less than half their age.
“I’ve — I’ve just never written a check that big,” I replied. I pondered the debt I was about to take on, the amount of the loan seemingly insurmountable to a lowly wildlife tech.
Ron let out a lighthearted laugh, “Son, wait ’till’til you sign up for that mortgage.” And just like that, the shiny 1890 was mine.
She was a few years old, but not 20 hours had ticked by on the 90 horsepower Suzuki. Ron’s eldest wasn’t much of a fisherman, and the Maritime wasn’t much of a wakeboard boat.
She mostly just sat, aching to fish the flats, pluck clams from the tidal mud, and navigate the creeks where black ducks play. I was happy to let her do what she was built for.
We spent that first winter chasing fowl and digging clams. She was in her prime, skimming across shallow flats and navigating the tight confines of creeks too small for most center consoles.
That spring, I had the 20-hour service performed and then let ‘er rip. There was no holding back: I kept the throttle cracked, and that’s the way it stayed for a decade and a half.
Throwing flies to tailing stripers, fishing offshore reefs, dragging a clam rake, setting decoys, pulling a tube. She did it all with a smile. Even on the coldest day, she started on the slightest nudge of the key. She delivered me when the winds kicked up out of nowhere, returning me safely from the duck hole in 50 mile per hour winds with enough confidence to do it again the next tide. She skated across the mud when the west wind emptied the bay. She even found my boy’s first striped bass.
But now it is time for her to go. A younger man needs her to chase fish and fowl.
New Chapter, New Vessel
I’ll always have a spot in my heart for that Maritime Skiff, but it no longer fits my needs as well as it once did. Where I once only had myself and some fishing buddies to worry about, my family grew to include a wife and young son. Jeanne, my better half, isn’t a big angler, but loves spending time on the water. Something with more seating options was in order, as well as a restroom. And though I considered the Maritime’s gunnels fairly high, especially compared to the garvies of my youth, they might have been a little low for taking a five-year-old into the North Atlantic. We settled on a fixer-upper Robalo that had ample seating, a bimini top, and a head tucked into the console. I did some fiberglass work, and put her into a slip.
We spent a few good summers on that boat, fishing, clamming, and tubing. But restlessness struck, and we decided to move some 255 miles to an 125-year old farmhouse tucked in New York’s Finger Lakes. The Robalo was no longer the right boat for us, so we sold the now-fixed-up center console to another angler so they could enjoy it as much as we did.
Roy Rogers once said that “the only upside to a dog’s life being short is that you can love more than one.” Well fortunately you don’t have to wait for a boat to go to the great beyond. Instead, you can get the next one that you will love.
In its place, I settled on a Tracker Grizzly 1860; a multi-purpose hull that is driven from the center, as boats should be. It wears a trolling motor on the bow to target bass, has a livewell we can fill with yellow perch, and a 90-horsepower Mercury on the back to cover ground quickly. Being constructed of welded aluminum, it’s light enough to be towed great distances without really hurting my gas mileage. It should be perfect for our island camping adventures. In the winter, it will wear a blind to chase ducks wherever I may find them. My family and I are looking forward to spending as much time as possible on it.
Of course, you can always just hold onto the same one. My former colleague from Boating Jim Hendricks just celebrated 40 years with his Split Decision, a 1986 Cabo 216 CuddyCon. Knowing Jim, I’m willing to bet that boat is in as good a condition as it was when it left the factory, if not better. It’s worked for Jim for this long, and I’m guessing he will hold onto for as long as he can.
Boatfuls of Memories
A boat is more than just fiberglass and aluminum. It’s early mornings with frost on the deck, the smell of salt and mud, the sound of a motor catching on the first turn of the key. It’s the places it takes you, and the version of yourself you are when you’re there.
That Maritime carried me through a chapter of life I’ll never forget. It was built for a younger man with fewer responsibilities and more time to chase tides, and it did that job perfectly. Letting her go wasn’t about outgrowing what she was. Instead, it was about recognizing that life had changed, and I had along with it.
The new boat will have its own stories. My son will grow up on it the way I grew into that skiff, and one day, maybe he’ll look back on it the same way. Hopefully, he’ll find a boat of his own to fall in love with.
So no, the best days aren’t just when you buy and sell a boat. The best days are all the ones in between. The one filled with bent rods and big smiles. Maybe even a first fish or two. So make sure you always have one.
