The Heartbreak of Boat Envy
I have a problem, a secret that has been hidden for many years.
Actually, as my friends and family are more than willing to attest, I have several problems. However, today we are talking about a serious psychosis that affects many men and even a few women. It is something that we hold inside, often feeling as if we are the only ones who suffer from this malady. However, now that it has become customary to publically share every sordid detail of your personal afflictions, it is time to discuss the problem in a frank and open manner.
I am talking about Boat Envy (BE).
This condition started many years before I even owned a boat. As a youngster I lay in bed many nights while mentally standing at the helm of a mighty cabin cruiser, hair pasted back by the breeze as booming diesel engines propelled the vessel down the sun-drenched Intercoastal Waterway. Sometimes I fantasized of a creaking sailboat that carried me, steely-eyed and laughing at the horrific storms, across the Pacific to places only Jacques Cousteau and native islanders had ever seen.
Unfortunately for boating dreams, my parents were of that old-fashioned philosophy that held it was all right to say: “When you get a job, you can get a boat.” Nowadays, mothers and fathers are forbidden to make such harsh statements but back in my day, parents were even allowed to make children carry out the garbage or mow the grass. It was a tough time.
Luck finally struck when word came that an uncle was giving me a derelict old boat that had spent the last several years nurturing a fine batch of weeds at his lakeside home. We drove to the lake where all of the assembled male relatives wrestled the ungainly craft into our borrowed van. To my eye, the rotting hulk was beautiful, a jewel in the rough. At least until a snake crawled out of the deck as we were rolling down the highway. That little problem was handled quickly and the boat was soon dry-docked in our garage where I spent many hours pounding, sanding, ripping and gouging. Unfortunately, by the time the rotten parts were removed, there was only a skeleton left. Thus, my first naval command eventually ended up as firewood.
A year and many thousands of hours of whining later, my parents finally bought my first real boat. It was a fiberglass canoe that had previously done livery duty and as such was scratched and patched over every inch. It weighed approximately four tons and was so slow that driftwood routinely passed us while paddling. However, it was a boat and I believed my prayers had been answered. A canoe is the original all-purpose vessel and I was sure it would last forever.
This was the beginning of my affliction. The first signs of disease were seen within a few months as I began to wish for a small fishing boat. The canoe was fine but a bit unstable for fishing in lakes, in fact already having sent some of my gear into the depths as I experienced my first near-drowning. Obviously, I needed something larger and more stable for fishing and reasoned that anyone, including parents, would understand the need to own both a canoe AND a small boat.
Now, four decades later, what started with an ungainly canoe has evolved into an endless procession of boats, boats and more boats that have cluttered my yard and caused serious damage to personal net worth. Through the years I have owned, often simultaneously, canoes, kayaks, rafts ranging in size from six to 14 feet, bass boats, center console boats, a sailboat and even an odd cata-raft. Even more frightening is the number of boats that have been seriously investigated for possible purchase.
The first warning sign of BE is complete satisfaction with the boat you currently own. If you think the boat sitting in your driveway or behind the barn is perfect for your needs, beware. There will come a day when you see another boat for sale and a tiny voice inside begins reciting the long list of shortcomings in your current watercraft. No Siren or foul temptress has ever been as seductive as a boat for sale.
There is no known treatment for BE aside from being exceptionally wealthy. Actually, experts aren’t sure that even this is an adequate cure. Undoubtedly the man sitting on his 100-foot mega-yacht, complete with skeet range and hot tub, occasionally casts yearning glances at his 110-foot dockside neighbor that has TWO hot tubs.
I’ll never have that problem because, due to that serious addiction to boats, I will never become incredibly wealthy. Consequently, I’ve been forced to take the poor man’s version of the cure: a fiancée who now hides my credit cards and bankbook.
I’m hoping the cure will work so I can seek help for a nasty case of Backpack Envy.