He was a boat builder like his dad. He learned from his father the art of creating a boat from an idea and the perfect tree. His father would fell the tree in the forest and drag it home, the donkey leading the way. Back in the day, his dad taught him about the proper tools for various tasks. These lessons required immense patience and the understanding that nothing could be rushed. On average, he would build two boats a year, commissioned by both local and often out-of-area clients, and delivered hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away.
Over time, he realized that the craft his father taught him was a gift few men had, and as his name became well known in boatbuilding, more difficult builds were asked of him. On one occasion, a retired gentleman asked him to build a boat with sleeping quarters, a gally, and other amenities he had never built before. As always, he was up for the task and agreed to build it.
He watched his father, and it became obvious he was nervous about this build, but the real tell happened when the boat was completed and the final inspection brought tears to both of them as the boat rolled off the dock into the harbor to the cheers of everyone seeing her leave the shop where the magic occurred. How many long and tedious days in all kinds of weather did he find his dad figuring out his next steps, all under his son's watchful eye as he absorbed all he could from the master craftsman?
It wouldn't be right not to tell you about his shop. It was once a wood shop where fine furniture was crafted, like dressers and tables, headboards, all crafted by gifted hands It sat at the end of a long ramp that spilled into the harbor, where merchant ships would sail them across the sea to their new owners. Business was booming for the furniture builders until one late night, a fire broke out, devouring everything made of wood, leaving a burned-out shell of darkness and lingering smoke that smelled like pine.
With what he had saved up over time, he purchased the land where the woodshop once stood and began rebuilding it to suit his needs. There was room enough for a tool room where dozens of hand tools were hung, and god help you if one went missing. There was a rope locker filled with various thicknesses of rope that would be used in the process when the boat slipped into the harbor. He also built a cabinet filled with stains and resin, paints of many colors, and a very small office where he'd go to amend a plan to his liking.
To this day, when I step foot in the boat shed, the smells and sounds of tools at work fill me with a sense of awe. My mind races back in time when teaching and learning went hand in hand, and the pride of the craftsman is now inside of me. After dad passed, I continued building boats, his spirit guiding my hands as I used his tools he so proudly displayed. After all these years, there's never been a power tool used in the building of our boats, and never will be. The only sounds you'd hear were the gentle stroke of a wood plane, the sound of steam as it shaped the boat, and a few craftsmen whistling a maritime song.
Mike 2026 
