Page 20. MAINE COASTAL NEWS August 2013 70S MEMORIES: BOAT DELIVERIES By Lee Wilbur
After the boats were completed, sea trials run, last minute adjustments and additions made, when Albert Farley, head painter and varnisher had done his last touch-up and signed off, delivery had to be made to the owner. Sometimes was easy. Owner would show up with family and/or friends, some- times with their captain. Other times it was our responsibility to deliver it if Southwest Harbor’s iconic “Nick” Moody and his Southwest Trucking Company hadn’t been contracted to deliver it on a boat transit trailer.
Boats delivered by water always seemed to me to be the most proper. There’d be a launching ceremony with a bottle of champagne cracked across the bow replete with the usual comments of “wasting all that good alcohol”, and worries from the female striker of doing damage to all that beautiful varnished wood or fi berglass. Of- ten the owner would throw a party for the crew and sometimes with gifts memorable to the construction such as brass belt buck- les from Woods Hole for a research vessel we’d completed, sometimes shirts with the vessel’s name embroidered along with em- ployee’s name, or an envelope with gratuity and thank-you note. Left the crew with a good feeling and a personalized desire to continue building boats to the best of their abilities.
Deliveries by the company, however, could often make for a bit of a scramble. There were only a few in the crew who were qualifi ed and even then various com- mitments or health problems could get in the way. One of our early skippers who had done some deliveries was Roger Seavey, ex-Vietnam, Air Force, who as youngster
and young man had spent countless hours on the water fi shing with his uncle. I al- ways felt comfortable with Roger’s deliv- ering, knowing he could navigate with just a compass and without all the electronics that were just beginning to appear on small- er boats. Roger though, had begun to have some heart problems and on one scheduled delivery had come to me in the morning, day of, and virtually tearful, and said he couldn’t do the delivery. Anxiety had got- ten the best of him. He’d had a heart attack on another delivery, and though recovering well, decided to not chance it again. What to do? Boat had to be in Cape Cod in two days to rendezvous with the owner. I’d had a navigation course in col- lege but never done a delivery. I called John Kelley, one of our crew leaders who’d done some when he worked for Hinckley’s and asked if he was game to try it with me… sort of blind leading blind. He agreed. I put a few warm clothes together—boat was a 38’ with just fl y bridge controls---picked up some groceries and charts and we left the harbor around noon. No sweat, right. Just like driving a car. We had a map and com- pass and all we had to do was keep track of where we were. Neither one of us knew how to run the new-fangled Loran, but we did know how to turn on the radar. I fi gured if we stayed inshore, kept track of the islands we passed, and were south of Portland before dark we could run into Kennebunkport and anchor overnight. Come morning we’d strike a course for Cape Cod and be in there by midday. We got to Portland alright but light was fad- ing fast, so fast that by the time we passed Portland head light it was hard to pick out any landmarks such as mouth of the river and we must have missed the right buoys.
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We ran down the shoreline a ways, circled back, then decided our only option was to keep going along the coast. One of us would be on the radar below while the other kept the wheel. We jogged along for an hour or so. It was dark, but beautiful being out on the water, wind had dropped off, visibility for picking out the buoys was good, but to say I was nervous and apprehensive, all wrapped into one would have been an understatement. This was the second boat we’d built for this owner. Our families had become close friends and the last thing I wanted was for something to happen. First boat had burned in a boatyard fi re and for them it was like a family member had died. Boating was a passion and they were on the water every chance available. If we had to stay offshore all night we’d do it. Then, a long string of buoys showed up on the radar screen and John, who nev- er seemed to be fazed by anything and was on the helm, yelled down for me to come up. We both agreed this was an entrance to a harbor or perhaps we had not been far enough down the coast to fi nd Kennebunk- port. Decided to poke in and try to fi nd a spot to anchor or pick up a mooring. With the spotlight picking up the chan- nel buoys and no cove or moorings in sight we were beginning to think we’d be safer to head back to open water when a spot- light from what turned out to be two gen- tlemen in a small Boston Whaler swept over the boat. We dropped into neutral and called over. “Is this Kennebunkport?” They laughed. I felt like the Bert and I routine coming on. “Don’t ya move a goddamn inch.”
“No,” One called back. “This is the York River. Can we help.”
I explained we were headed for Cape Cod to deliver this boat and would like to fi nd a mooring. One graciously replied if we kept going straight in we’d come to his dock and we could tie up there for the night. Knock on the door and tell his wife what was going on and we could use his phone. Wife would make a sandwich if we wanted. Big sigh of relief. We easily found his house. I called home to tell family where we were and to pass along the word to John’s wife, Polly. Back on board, I boiled up a hot dog stew which John allowed was the worst thing he’d ever eaten while we each drank a beer I’d added to the grocery bag. I thought it was a minor feast.
Next morning it was donuts and instant
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coffee as we cleared the mouth of the river, gorgeous sun and light southwest breeze in our face and headed downhill for the Cape. Few hours later we were tied up and giving “Bacalla” a good rinse down. Called to tell the owner every thing was fi ne, we’d had a
great trip and were now renting a car and heading back Downeast. By the next deliv- ery I had to make, I made sure I understood what all those buttons and knobs did on a Loran C. Made life a lot easier. Another Delivery Story
One of the fi rst Wilbur 34s we built was originally sold at the Annapolis Boat show to a couple from Naples, Florida, who had just happened to visit the show that year. Looking for a boat to tow behind their 75’ converted shrimp trawler, plans were to set up operation in the Bahamas and have clients fl y down for week or more of sport- fi shing with the “smaller” boat. Theory was fi ne; however, as good a boat people as this couple were, neither really addressed the question of who was going to wait on and take care of these clients, especially if fam- ilies with young or younger children came along as well. Plan lasted all of two weeks. Few years later I get a phone call from the owner with the story and an up to date of where their boating lives were at pres- ent. Said it was time to downsize, they’d had their Caribbean/Mexico adventures. The W-34 had been a great fi shing boat, had been a “catcher”---occasionally throughout my career I had heard about one boat being more attractive to fi sh than another. We al- ways layed it off to the harmonics created by prop noise, engine vibration, etc.--- they had been “High Rod” in several tourna- ments or impromptu competitions. Long and short, he wanted to sell the boat and did I know of anyone who might be interest- ed. Price was quite attractive, so Heidi and I decided to buy it back and do a refurbish for resale.
Good friend, John Young and Ski part-
ner, Billy Rice were working for us that summer and doing a few deliveries as well, so I convinced them a boat trip from Flori- da would be just the best thing imaginable and they quickly agreed.
First phone call back, “Lee”, John says, “This boat’s been worked hard. Did you by chance have a survey done?” “No, but the price was so low I fi gured we could make up any problems.” “Well,” He came back, “We’re in Stu- art now and I’ve got to go somewhere and make up a new exhaust system and muf- fl er. This one has rotted out. Even stainless doesn’t hold up too long in Caribbean wa- ters.”
I called a friend who let John and Billy
use the yard’s welding shop. John crafted a new system and the boys were soon on their way back up the waterway.
They had pulled in to Bayonne, N.J. for an overnight rest stop (part of the time they’d run outside and come in only to fuel). Knock came on the side of the boat, “Anyone aboard?” Wanted to know about the boat and if it might be for sale. John
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