wanted: boat that floats

The planets aligned last weekend: I'm finally buying a boat.
I've been a proponent of bank fishing, wading, fishing from a kayak or canoe and surf casting from some time now. And it's easier to be a proponent of such green and healthy measures when you don't have a boat nor can you buy one.
Screw that.
But let's back up a second.
I used to have a boat. In fact, I've had two now. Thing is, they were both sailboats.
And I love sailing. The last was a Marshall Sanderling — an 18-foot catboat. Picture a bathtub with a small cabin and a lot of cockpit with the mast at the very bow, gaff-rigged with one 256-square-foot sail.
It was gorgeous.
So gorgeous that some such-and-such stole it.
Now, I practice Christianity, but I will never for give the so-and-so who took my boat and left me to deal (for coming up on a year now) with the boat insurance company, which also is trying to rip me off.
But I'm trying to let it go.
You see, there's something so natural about sailing. To be able to hear the water as it laps at the waterline; to feel the wind as it fills the sails; to smell the old varnish, teak and mahogany, the bilge, the must from the cabin, the salt, the canvass (OK, Dacron).
Enough nostalgia.
Folks down here, well sailboats are called blowboats and aren't functional. I'd beg to differ. The catboat was the American pickup truck of the harbor. The wide and long cockpit was a work deck — for lobster and crab traps and fishing nets. A similar boat, the friendship sloop, was a bigger version, and it saw many a day towing fishing nets across the Chesapeake.
Have I fished from Desiderata? Yes. Often? No. Fact is, it was tough to swing a fly through the air and not get tangled on the mast, sheet or some other line. But I tried.
That was until the sonofabich swiped it from me.
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But here I sit today with a different dilemma. See, I'm not getting a 17-foot center cockpit skiff (sure, I'd love one; I'm just not going to buy one and not be able to pay for food for my family). What I've decided to get is a jonboat. The pickup truck of motorboats. The 1974 pickup truck, that is.
And I want a small engine, not a large one. No more than 25 horse. I have an old 5 hp Tohatsu that used to push the sailboat right there in my garage. One five-gallon gas tank will probably push her around all summer.
My budget? $1,000 and not a penny more.
Oh, the dilemma? I can't find this boat.
A couple of months ago, I was scanning Craigslist, and there were at least 10 of them around.
Today, there are two: One that doesn't have a motor (but that's OK; like I said, I have one) which lists for $825; and the other, well, it's $1,500.
I'm planning on calling the guy with the $1,500 one and asking him if he'll take $1,000. He probably won't, so, assuming the lesser one is still available, I'll be the guy in the camouflaged fiberglass jonboat with the 5 hp longshaft plying the river banks in search for a trout.
Puff puff...
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There is beauty in utility. I discovered this back in college when I traded a slick Honda Prelude for a Subaru 4x4. It was a former pizza-delivery car, and it was ugly. About the size of a loveseat with 13-inch white wagon wheels.
And it bounded through the snow like a snowshoe hare. And I fell in love with it.
Since then, I've been back and forth with cars (see bossanova for my love affair with the Ford Town Squire station wagon). And in all practical senses, I've stuck with my '01 Blazer simply because it's OK if it smells like fish, it gets me to where I need to go, it can pull a boat and, well, it's got a sunroof.
I don't think of it in the same beautiful utilitarian way that I did the Subaru or my old pickups. Or even the Honda Element that's our "good" car. That's because it breaks down with some degree of regularity, and I can't work on cars with on-board computers.
Now all I need is the boat.
I'm determined, and that counts for something with me. Because when I set my jaw, I'm pretty sure there will be the outcome I want, or at least in the ballpark of that trajectory.
I'll probably be on the boat solo most of the time. So I think I'll cover the front third of the boat in plywood and astroturf, so as to make a nice fly-fishing platform. That way, i can get into the reeds, drop the hook and fish standing up.
I guess that means I'll have to purchase a fishing license.
Other thoughts? I'll probably get a hold of some more sand spikes and fashion a rod holder, for both fly and baitcasters rods. I don't need a fancy live well. A cooler will be fine. There will be no radio, but I will need a dry spot to keep my cell phone in case I need a Coast Guard rescue.
No electronics, no fish finders. I have a hand-held GPS and the sun if I get lost. And I don't plan on being out after the streetlights go on.
I might paint over the camo, though... Just because I'm not that much of a redneck and, well, like I said, the Coast Guard might have to locate me from time to time.
Yep, spring is on the way.