The engine roared to life, only to die immediately. I gripped the pull chord, knuckles white from the pressure, and I pulled again. The twenty some year old Sears Boat motor came alive, protested, and died. The little 7.5 horse boat motor had not been started in at least seven years and was reluctant to do so this day. Realizing, as I looked into the eyes of my 10 year old little girl, who had a fishing pole in one hand and a container of worms in the other, that there was no way I was going to deny her spending a couple of hours on a small lake, I grabbed the pull chord again. “Third time’s the charm,” I said to my wife, who also had a fishing pole in hand and look of concern on her face.
The boat motor, purchased by my father long before my little girl was born, was firmly attached to a Small Aluminum Boat. The boat, small in size but large in history, belonged to my great grandfather. Unfortunately, most of the memories, that the small aluminum boat are a part of, died off with the passing of family members who, at one time or another, possessed the boat. The boat is a part of various memories of my own of course. Memories that include fishing with my father in Lake City, memories of fishing with a good friend when I was a single man and memories of cruising around lakes looking at cabins with my future wife, dreaming of owning a cabin of our own one day.
Sitting on the creaky dock in front of my step-mother’s cabin, I pulled again. The engine roared to life, I fumbled with the choke, the engine kept running and the smile on my daughter’s face grew. Memories were going to be made this day after all.
You’d think me a fool if I told you that the little motor ran as if it were in its prime. It didn’t. The fact of the matter is, it barely powered the aluminum boat around at the same capacity a new 4 horse outboard would. But it ran. My wife, who seems to be happiest when on the water, had wind blowing through her hair and the sun shining on her face. My daughter out-fished her mother and later spoke of her accomplishment to everyone who would listen. As for me, I piloted the boat in and out of bluegill holes, listening to my wife and daughter talk smack to one another about who would catch the most fish. I will smile well into old age when visiting the memory of my wife trying to convince my daughter that, although my daughter caught more fish, it was my wife that was the real victor because she caught a small bass and any experienced fisherman would agree that catching a bass should equal two bluegill.
At the end of the day, I left the boat propped up on its side, leaning against a tall red oak at the side of the lake, waiting for someone else to come along and make a memory that it can be a part of.
This post first appeared on The Average Joe Fisherman - Northern Michigan Edition, please read the originial post: here
