When I was twelve, I wanted a boat. This was in the late forties when the Fantome was anchored off the Seattle Yacht Club and it was still possible to haunt the mom and pop marinas that dotted the north shore of Portage Bay. I used to wander the docks and admire the gorgeous sailboats and sleek pleasure craft; and, once, I even nailed a couple of logs together and paddled around the houseboats and the Showboat Theater like a proverbial Huck Finn. I felt almost like a real boater—that is, until the Harbor Patrol caught me and sent me scuttling back to the shore.
      That didn't matter much anyway, since Portage Bay wasn't the Mississippi; and I didn't have a friend like Tom Sawyer or old Jim. Besides, I wanted a boat, not a raft. Of course, I didn't have much money. In fact, I didn't have any money at all, and I knew that if I was to graduate from my raft to something more sophisticated, I would have to build my boat myself —unless, of course, I could salvage one of the rotting, old derelicts that lay around the shoreline down at the edge of Portage Bay. That was unlikely.
      I decided that home construction was the simplest, cheapest, and—for that matter-my only option.
      My father was in the import business at the time, and our backyard was populated with a number of empty, wooden packing crates. My kid sister used them as a playhouse tract, — moving like a hermit crab from box to box as suited her pleasure. It seemed that one or two of her crate houses would suit perfectly for my magnificent new project; and I knew where I could find a handsaw, a hammer, and a fistful of nails. Given such marvelous tools and raw materials, I figured I knew enough about the art of boat building to build the genuine item all on my own—intuitively, of course. In fact, the project appeared really quite simple—to wit, one end of the device had to be pointy, it had to be big enough to float a twelve year old kid, and everything had to be nailed real close together.
      The next few days were spent deconstructing a couple of my sister's crates as I hammered and sawed my raw material into the most remarkable of nautical devices ever seen in the vicinity of 42nd and University Way. My kid sister watched her precious box tract neighborhood disappear with a certain amount of trepidation as I courageously labored onward, but I had bribed her with the promise of a free ride if she would promise not to go screaming to mom, and that kept her quiet—though doubtful of my project—for the time being.
      Well, by the third day, I was satisfied, although my sister was a bit uncertain that I had really made any kind of boat at all and had the temerity to suggest that it would likely sink if it came even close to the water.
      "How do you know, smarty?" I asked.
      "Cause I can see the sun in cracks underneath it." She smirked.
      "Oh, yeah, well watch this," and to prove her wrong, I stuffed a garden hose into the hull and turned on the water.
      Noah couldn't have seen more of a deluge as water gushed from the floorboards; and, try as I would, I couldn't fill my boat faster than it leaked, not even when I turned the water all the way up, the hose got loose, and—for some mysterious reason—sprayed my sister in the face. That was when she flatly informed me that she had no intention of drowning in the stupid thing, and for all she cared, I could take it down to the water alone!
      I had to admit that she sure was right about the deluge, but I was sure that a bit of waterproofing—innovative caulking, if you will—might be all that was necessary and my flotation problems would be solved.
      I rummaged through the old shed out back; and, midst the cobwebs and rusty tools, I found a roll of heavy-duty, gray wax paper which had come in my dad's packing crates when they arrived from Sweden.
      This, I thought, would solve my problem, and quiet my smart-mouth sister.
      I nailed the paper to the inside of the boat; and, voila, the sun cracks were gone; and my sister was quiet — though still obviously skeptical.
      Now, of course, I had to find a way to transport my sturdy craft to the water's edge. My sister just happened to have a red wagon; and I prevailed to her better self to let me use it to begin my maritime adventure. Her smartiness not withstanding, she was typically a rather sunny sort and agreed; and so the two of us hoisted my sturdy waxpaper craft onto the wagon. My parents came out to wish me farewell and bon voyage—knowing full well my project would descend to the bottom the minute it got thrown into the bay. And so, with all the naivete and trust of Chris Columbus on his first journey west, I set out for Portage Bay dragging my prize on the red wagon behind me.
      Of course, I didn't realize it at the time, but this was to be my very first trailer boat.
      With happy heart and hope born of a pineapple sky, I trundled down University Way, my sister's red wagon and my wax paper, packing-crate-wonder in tow. I knew of a tiny cove and dock just west of what is now the UW oceanography building, and it seemed like the perfect spot for my maiden voyage. I trudged over to fifteenth, dragged the wagon across the golf course, and made for the cove and the dock.
      There was no one in sight, which was something of a relief, since I didn't want to be caught and kicked out. Worse yet, it occurred to me that someone might witness my humiliation if my boat really did sink, and that would be awful!
      I dragged my maritime contraption out on the dock, tilted the wagon, tied a line to one end, and slid the boat into the bay with a resounding thunk.
      It plopped straight to the bottom, like a rock—and then it lay there, bubbling a string of tiny bubbles like a bottom fish. I was stunned. The darn thing didn't even have the decency to sink slowly. It just went down—straight down, like a dead U-boat. I peered into the deeps for a very long time, and felt wretched. I had failed, and failed miserably; and my little sister was not going to take this lightly. After all, I had just committed two of her former tract houses to the deeps. Well, I certainly couldn't leave the thing there—not with all my handy work and time and my dad's crates at risk. So I tugged and pulled at the line until I managed to get the little beast into the shallows where I could back the wagon under it, and trailer it to the shore.
      The trek back up University Way was wretched. I was soaked to the waist; my shoes were squelchy, and I left a trail of water and wheel marks to mark my every step up the hill back to 42nd. When I arrived home, my dad was waiting.
      "Well, how did it go?" he asked—trying, though not very well, to look concerned sympathetic.
      "Not so good," I said.
      "Told you so," my sister said. I just glared at her --
      "What do you want to do with it?" dad asked.
      Oh, lets put it in the backyard till I think of something."
      "Maybe you could fix it in some way," he lied.
      "Naw, I don't think so; it doesn't float very well—matter of fact, it doesn't float at all."
      "Tee-hee," said my sister.
      I glared again. She scowled.
      "Gimme back my wagon," She said
      And so I dragged my nautical wonder around to the back yard, tipped it out of the wagon, set it upright under the elm tree, and went upstairs to change into dry clothes.
      I felt wretched the rest of the day—I had failed miserably; I didn't have a boat—not even a tiny one; and my ugly little creation sat forlornly under the old elm to remind me of my failure.
      Well, that was that. I went to bed that night, emersed in self-pity and twelve year-old misery. I slept late the next day; and when I finally woke up, the first thing I did was check my nautical wonder.
      It had been moved; it was filled with sand; and my kid sister was sitting in it.
      "Hi, Matts — this is neat."
      "I like your boat — I really do, honest!"
      And she tossed a shovel full of sand in my direction, smiled her kid sister smile, and proceeded to dig and pat sand like fury. I went over to take a look. She was building a castle.
      "Neat, huh?"
      "Yup," I said, "it's neat!"
      And she went back to her castle building.
      That was more than fifty years ago. My kid sister still builds castles, but the sandbox is gone. The Fantome was lost in a hurricane north of Honduras; Jenson's Boatworks survives, but not much else remains of the old marinas, and The Showboat was declared a firetrap and torn down. Still, a magic spell hovers over a tiny cove just south of the oceanography building. If you go there and peer into the deeps, you will see a string of tiny bubbles rising mysteriously from the very spot where there was once a dock. No one has been able to explain them—they come from no discernable source, but they are real enough, except that some have said that every so often, one of them rises dizzily to the surface and makes a funny, bubbling thunk.

Matts Djos lives in Grand Junction, Colorado, with wife, Jeanine. They trailer sail extensively in the Pacific Northwest, and southern California, and Mexico.


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