You’re never going to believe this. In a major departure from my themed writing, I wanted to let you know that this weekend is going to be a perfect weekend to visit Lake Geneva. You’re right, I do think every weekend is the perfect weekend to spend in Lake Geneva, but you really can’t blame me for my exceptional taste and heightened levels of refinement. Yes, this weekend, it’s going to be a marvelous weekend to spend at the lake. There’s something taking place this weekend that is uniquely Lake Geneva, something that other area lakes, and other Midwest lakes cannot really compete with. I’m talking of the 10th annual Geneva Lakes Antique and Classic Boat Show. The show takes place this weekend at the Abbey Resort in Fontana, with boats arriving all day on Friday, which provides you the opportunity to indulge in prime boat lusting time on Saturday and Sunday. The boats will be moored in the Abbey Harbor, and the growl of straight, unrestrained pipes will be heard for miles around as owners juice their engines to the delight of the crowds. It’s an on-water boat show, and it’s a bunch of fun. To have this many classic boats all in one beautiful place makes for truly an exciting visual experience.
My personal experience with wood boats is a bit of a sad tale. You see, I’ve longed for wood boats my whole life. My father has had several wood boats, and my uncle famously had one of his own. I say famously because he owned a beautiful 20′ Chris Craft Continental. I’m guessing it was around a 1956, and my uncle, the youngest of four siblings, had “Kid Curry” painted on the stern. I don’t remember this boat well, because my uncle, in his infinite wisdom, decided to sell it for something silly like $500 some time around 1980. Here’s a picture of my older brother happily hanging from the mooring ropes, as Kid Curry held still next to my dads pier. I have to forgive my dad for the tires that are serving as boat bumpers. It was the 70’s, and people just didn’t know better. The photographs are in a similar vain as the cinematography in the Wonder Years, where just about everything old looks idyllic and perfect, like an unintended sepia.
My dad has had a love affair with old wood boats, even as he curses the trials and mechanical tribulations that accompany such ownership. Chris Craft was always the model of choice, and a 24′ 1960 Sportsman has hung dutifully in my fathers Williams Bay pier slip ever since I can remember. We used to really use that boat, and I can even recall at least one summer picnick in that boat as a young boy. My morther packed a lunch, and my father drove the boat out, killed the engine in the middle of the lake, and just bobbed. We ate and swam, choosing to ignore all those rumors about not eating and swimming at the same time. We enjoyed ourselves, and we enjoyed that boat. For as long as I can remember, my dad would tell my brothers and me that we’d be able to drive the Chris Craft when we turned 30. As a father, when you promise your 8 year old son that something will happen when he’s 30, it must seem like such a far off promise that there’s little chance of circumstances remaining stable enough for that promise to actually come true. I heard that line about driving the boat when I turned 30 my entire life. A couple years ago, something strange happened. I turned 30. I taunted my dad about the birthday that he must have been dreading for decades, and promised him I’d drive that boat like a rented Kia. I promised lots of full throttle cruising, and sharp turns. Sharp turns, by the way, are impossible in true inboard boats. Ever try to pull into a pier to pick up some passengers in a high wind while driving an inboard engine boat with high sides? Don’t.
So my magical, depressing, Chris Craft oriented 30th birthday came and went. My dad gave me a card for my birthday and he hand wrote “30 = Chris Craft” on it. But something strange happened that day. And subsequent days. That something has happened on every day since my 30th birthday. That something is more like nothing, and I have never been able to drive that darn wood boat. Never have I backed out of the slip and waived goodbye to those gathered on the pier like the scene in some Lake Geneva post card dated 1908. My father, for all of his attributes and promises kept, just wasn’t able to turn over the keys to his prized wood boat to me. Oh sure, I can steer the boat like a 10 year old during the couple of excursions each year that the old mahagony utility completes, but I still can’t drive the boat without the supervision of my 65 year old father.
I guess I don’t blame him. I was near Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, at the helm of a 17′ Montauk Boston Whaler with powder blue interior and a wood console when the Johnson outboard decided to seize, and the blame was placed squarely on my 16 year old shoulders. I guess parents might slowly forgive, but they rarely forget. My fathers memory is intact, and I’m under the assumption now that as long as he has his scruples, I’ll still be banned from the Chris Craft. You’ll notice in some of these family photos, there’s been a singular constant in the life of the Curry family. While cars come and go, and unfortunately everyone ages (that top photo is of me, my two brothers, and my mother- I’m in the sweet red shorts, probably Ocean Pacific), the old Chris Craft just waits. It hangs in the slip that has been its summer home for nearly 40 years, while generations of kids pose for pictures in front of it. It’s pier art as my dad calls it, and I can’t think of a better backdrop to a lazy summer day than that old boat.
For now, I’ll just turn an excited ear to the water each time I hear the rumble of a Streblow, or notice the graceful curved bow of a Continental cutting through the calm Geneva waters. When a white painted Lyman floats by, I’ll give it the attention it deserves, just as I appreciate the sexy lines of Riva when one roars by. I’ll always admire wood boats. I’ll always want one. I’ll always defend them, and one day, I’m sure I’ll have one. I just hope it’s my dads 1960 Chris Craft Sportsman. For now, I just hope I don’t have to wait another 30 years to finally take my first solo trip. See you at the lake.