Month: November 2025

Before we got the boat, my wife made one thing crystal clear: “We don’t need a boat. We need an updated kitchen.”
So when I finally brought the boat home, I pointed to the galley and said, “Voilà—your new kitchen.”
She was not impressed.

But she saw how much I loved it—not just cruising, but upgrading, tinkering, digitizing. And that’s when her checklist started. Not the mechanical stuff. Not the electronics. The details. The things I’d never notice until my coffee spilled or my feet got tangled in a duvet.

Cup Holder Crisis

It started with the cup holders.
The originals were plastic, sun-faded, and turning into mush. I had three types: large, small, and one broken to fit the Lowrance fish finder. Monterey, in their infinite wisdom, had cut a notch into the helm cup holder to make it fit. Brilliant planning.

I counted them up: four large, two small. The rest were fiberglassed into the boat. So I began the hunt—Amazon, Walmart, the usual suspects. Amazon had better options this time, with actual color choices. I handed my wife the phone and said, “What do you think about white?”

She scrolled for half an hour and landed on stainless steel.
“It matches. Don’t introduce too many variations,” she said.
I clicked. They arrived the next day.

Installing them wasn’t hard, but I learned something: each cup holder had a little nib at the bottom to drain excess fluids. Ingenious. They even came with clear hoses. Where do they drain? Still a mystery. Maybe the lake. Maybe the bilge. I blew out each pipe, sanded the fiberglass to fit, taped them snug, and snapped a photo. She approved.

Bass Pro and the Yacht Debate

Next up: Bass Pro Shop. For me, it’s a pilgrimage. I could spend the whole day there—and the whole budget. But this time, we were on a mission.

Our boat originally came with side-folding seats, but they were removed long ago and didn’t make it into the purchase. Honestly, I was relieved. They were bulky, awkward, and about as comfortable as sitting on a toolbox. So when we pulled into Bass Pro, I asked, “What are we here for? Folding fishing net? Boat lights?”

She cut me off: “We’re looking for small folding director chairs.”

Now, the average North American butt has grown over the years (mine included), but she pointed out that the big chairs take up too much room. We needed something portable—chairs that could sit near the bench seat or perch on the swim platform with a small table for drinks.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” I said. “I didn’t sign up for a bistro setup. We’ve got the stainless steel BBQ table, and the cockpit table fits fine. We don’t need a bistro table. The boat’s big, but it ain’t a yacht.”

She looked at me like I had egg on my face and said, “If I say it’s a yacht, it’s a yacht.”

So I pulled up a Waterways clip of Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson telling Steve Bull, “That’s not a yacht,” referring to Our Time.
She turned to me and said, “And he doesn’t think Pluto is a planet.”
Who can argue?

The V-Berth Upgrade

Then came the V-berth.
She said, “We’re going to IKEA.”
I said, “God no, not IKEA. What now? Do I have to assemble something?”

Nope. She wanted a light duvet. Something machine washable. Fitted sheets. Extra pillows. Funky green covers. Why? I still don’t know. But I think she wanted it to feel like home. She even found a lady at a boat show who makes custom bedding for V-berths. That’s commitment.

The Galley Standoff

Next came the galley.
I said, “Let’s upgrade it.”
She said, “No. First my kitchen. Then the galley.”

Oh, so it’s going to be like that, eh?
Yeah. I guess I’m on my own with the galley.

Final Thought

Boats may be built for adventure, but it’s the little touches that make them livable. And if you’re lucky, you’ve got someone who sees the details you miss—and makes sure your floating man cave doesn’t turn into a floating mess

As summer rolled on, I realized my boat was turning into too much of a cruiser and party boat. Don’t get me wrong — cruising is fun. But I bought this boat with fishing in mind, and it was time to focus.

The truth is, cruising and fishing don’t mix well. Cruisers think about wineries, charcuterie boards, and sunsets. Fishermen think about rods, lines, and the hunt for wild fish. On my boat, the cooler of beverages doubled as a live well — minus the “live” part. The folding seats were tucked away so the stern could become a fishing platform.

The boat came with two rod holders, 12-volt plugs for down-riggers (but no down-riggers), and a rail system for rods (but no external holders). Clearly, she’d been used for fishing before.

The Reveal

One day, I was trolling on Erie, following the other fishing boats, when I got a text. Thanks to the “Find a Friend” app, my location was visible.

“Are you fishing with a charter?” my buddy asked.
“Nope.”
“Out with friends?”
“Nope.”
“Your phone says you’re in the middle of Lake Erie.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’m on my boat.”

His response: “NOOOOOOOOOO…”
Mine: “Yessssssss. I finally bought one. Now you don’t have to listen to me talk about my dream boat anymore.”

He couldn’t believe it.

The next day, he texted again: “I don’t believe you have the right equipment to fish Erie.”

Enter Mr. Rhybak

Let’s call him Mr. Rhybak. He wasn’t just a fisherman — he was the fisherman. When he went out, the fish practically lined up biggest to smallest to jump on his line. If he didn’t have a day job, he’d be a pro.

Naturally, he wanted to help.

We drove west to Woodstock, Ontario, to a place called Angling Outfitters. What a store. The owner knew every species, every technique, and every piece of gear. He asked about my boat, its year, and what I wanted to do. Then he looked at my old Lowrance fish finder and suggested I donate it to a museum. A new one went straight onto my list.

I stocked up: trolling rods, lead-core lines, jigs, tackle. The prices were fair, the advice was free, and the knowledge was priceless.

From there, we headed to Hamilton, where Mr. Rhybak introduced me to more fishing shops. Each one was an eye-opener. I thought I had the right gear for Erie, but these guys honed in on the details: species, depth, boat speed, water temperature, and hotspots.

The Next Outing

A few days later, Mr. Rhybak asked, “When are we going fishing again?”
“Friday,” I said.

With new equipment and fresh knowledge, we headed out. We caught fish, but we quickly realized we were still missing a few key pieces of the puzzle.

The learning curve was steep, but the adventure was just getting started.

Every Father’s Day starts the same: my boys scramble last-minute, and I brace for another Shoppers Drug Mart special. You know the drill—razor set, novelty socks, maybe a mug that says “#1 Dad” if they’re feeling sentimental. Works for Mother’s Day. For dads? Not so much.

Now don’t get me wrong—I love my sons. Over the years, they’ve shown they care in their own wonderfully chaotic way. But Father’s Day, in my humble opinion, should be about what the father wants. A BBQ cheeseburger. A cold drink. A hammock. Maybe the boys fanning me while keeping the flies away. Sorry, I drifted off there…

This year felt different. My wife got involved. That’s when I knew something was up. She gave me the ominous warning: “Don’t make any plans for Father’s Day.” Translation: abandon all cheeseburger dreams, ye who enter here.

Sunday morning rolls around. I’m sipping coffee, checking the weather on Lake Erie. It’s perfect—sunny, calm, the kind of day that whispers, “Go boating.” I casually mention this to my wife. Without missing a beat, she says, “Too bad. The boys have plans for you.”

Denied.

Instead, I’m told to get dressed up. We’re going to brunch. I like brunch. I don’t like crowds of sugared-up toddlers and dads pretending they’re thrilled about quinoa pancakes. Sure enough, we arrive at a trendy spot with a wait list. Just under an hour. Not bad—for a hostage situation.

Eventually, we’re seated and served something that looked like breakfast and lunch had a food truck baby. It was tasty, I’ll give them that. But I was still dreaming of my cheeseburger.

Then came the twist.

In the parking lot, the boys handed me a gift. Not wrapped. A captain’s hat—the kind you get on Amazon for $12.99 with questionable stitching. Then out came my sailing bag, boat keys, and a declaration: “Wizz going fishin’!”

Two cars. One with me and the boys. One with my wife, who somehow scored the day off. Suspicious.

We got to the boat. My older son had never seen it. My younger son, the self-appointed first mate, took the helm. This was back in the days of the old Lowrance fish finder—the one that basically says, “You’re in water. Good luck.”

We motored out onto Erie, rods in hand, tunes blasting. I did my fatherly duty and asked if everyone had their fishing licenses and small craft cards. They did. Miracles happen.

We trolled. We followed other boats. The fish finder showed cartoon fish doing synchronized swimming. We caught nothing. But the weather was perfect, and the vibes were better.

Eventually, the first mate got tired. I handed the wheel to my older son, who drove the boat like it was his sports car. I explained that boats don’t go where you point them. Wind and waves have opinions. He learned fast. Four hours of trolling later, he had a new respect for boating—and maybe for me.

Best. Father’s Day. Ever.

As the sun dipped, I took the helm and pointed us home, still dreaming of that elusive cheeseburger. But just as we throttled up in response to a mayday call, the wind caught my captain’s hat—the proud Amazon special—and launched it into Lake Erie like a ceremonial offering. It sank without a trace. First casualty of the day. Moments later, the cover to the old Lowrance fish finder rattled loose and followed suit, as if paying tribute to the fallen head wear. We were down two accessories but up one unforgettable memory. Within minutes, we arrived on scene. Thankfully, the boater was safe and the drama short-lived. It was a reminder that when you’re on the water, you help—because one day, you might be the one calling for it.

We headed home. No cheeseburger. But a good meal, a great day, and a memory I’ll never forget.

It was time to take my wife out on the boat. Did I forget to mention that I hadn’t turned off the battery bank or plugged into shore power after my first run? Rookie mistake.

It was a Sunday, right after church, when my wife said, “Let’s go for a ride.” Traffic was light, conversation was good, and when we arrived at the marina, the boat was still floating — always a reassuring sign.

I tried to turn on the blowers. Nothing. Turned the key. Nothing. The power was already on, but the batteries were dead. In my excitement the week before, I’d left everything running.

The marina boys came over, and one of them — a friend of my son’s — offered a charger. We hooked it up, but the boost didn’t work. Later we discovered the shore power wasn’t working either. So we left the boat, and I spent the next week waiting for the batteries to recover.

A Week Later

This time, I was ready. The charger had done its job, the engine roared back to life, and I set up the folding seats. Smooth jazz on the radio, Mama stepping aboard, and Lake Erie looking like glass.

It was perfect.

I eased her out, engines rumbling, and headed toward a lighthouse. At one point, I nearly clipped an anchor tie-up for barges — a reminder that Erie’s Canadian side is full of oil wells, sandbars, and hazards. I slowed down, adjusted the stabilizers, trimmed the motor, and kept us steady.

Everyone on board was delighted. The weather was flawless, the ride smooth, and the scenery stunning.

Back at the Marina

We returned at sunset, opened a bottle of wine, and shared cheese, meats, and olives. For a moment, it felt like dining on the Riviera. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic — but it was a success.

This time, I made sure every switch was off before leaving. I found the shore power cable, plugged it in, and saw the fridge humming and the batteries charging. Finally, I could exhale.

I’d been worried our “three-hour tour” might end up like the Minnow. Instead, it was the perfect day.

This was the day I’d been waiting for — my first trip out of the marina.

Like any marina, you need to learn the local navigation, but being on a river adds a few more obstacles and hidden hazards. And Lake Erie? Even more. I never thought my first time out would be solo, but in hindsight, it was the best way to get familiar with the boat — to learn her quirks, her nuances, and how she wanted to be handled.

Mom’s Voice in My Head

Before I even left the dock, I remembered a conversation with my mother.

“Mom, I bought a boat. It’s something I’ve always wanted.”

Her response was classic: “Why are you buying a boat? Do you know anything about boating? Couldn’t you help your sons instead? Isn’t there a charity that needs you? Boating is expensive! Where are you even going to keep it?”

She wasn’t wrong. Boating can be expensive, and without a budget, costs can spiral. Fuel alone is enough to make you wince.

Fuelling Up

For my first trip, I needed gas. I had 80 litres worth of old Jerry cans, so I drove to a Native fuel stop, filled the truck, and filled the cans. Marina fuel prices are nearly double or triple, so I was saving a small fortune.

Back at the marina, I unloaded the cans and started filling. I thought 80 litres would be plenty. Wrong. The gauge barely moved. So I went back, filled another 80 litres, and tried again. This time, the gauge crept up to half a tank.

Reality check: this boat takes 100 gallons. My thrifty grin turned into a frown as I came face-to-face with the carbon tax and the reality of fuelling a big-block 454. But I wasn’t going to let that ruin the day.

Casting Off

The engine roared to life, that unmistakable growl of a 7.4L MerCruiser. I looked both ways — no kayakers, no ducks — and eased her downriver.

I turned on the fish finder, only to be reminded this was 1994 technology. The “map” was basically a boat icon floating on blue nothingness. Not exactly confidence-inspiring.

Depth finder said 5 feet. Then 3. Then 1. I trimmed up and skimmed over a mud bar. First hazard noted. Detailed charts just jumped to the top of my shopping list.

Letting Her Run

Once I hit the main river, the depth dropped to 26 feet. Other boats passed me, and I decided it was time to let those eight cylinders loose.

I throttled up. The RPMs climbed past 4500. She planed beautifully — then started to list. Throttled down, she stabilized. Tried again, same thing. Time to learn the manual stabilizers. After a bit of fiddling, I had her balanced and running smooth.

The wind in my hair, CCR’s Fortunate Son fading into the Stones’ Paint It Black on the radio — for a moment, it felt like a scene out of Apocalypse Now. Commercial fishing boats, oil rigs, and small craft crowded the river, forcing me to slow down. But I didn’t care.

I had my moment. My boat, my river, my first voyage.

We finally got the boat into place at the marina. The ground was soft, so I had to jack up the trailer and wedge cinder blocks underneath for support. The marina crew anticipated this — they added wheel blocks too. All that was left was to disconnect the trailer.

“I got this,” I told myself. I lowered the truck suspension, eased back, then pulled forward to release the hitch. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. One more time. Still stuck.

By now, it was getting dark, and the mosquitoes had discovered me. (Pro tip: never wear cologne in the summer — it’s like ringing the dinner bell.) The hitch refused to let go. Finally, I pulled the ball off the truck and drove forward. Success — the trailer was free. And then, as if to mock me, the ball joint fell off on its own. A little reminder that in boating, even the small things have a way of humbling you.

The boat was now sitting in the yard, looking every bit like she needed some TLC.

The Checklist That Didn’t Exist

I went home that night thinking I’d start preparing a checklist of things to do. Except I didn’t have a checklist. So the next day, I went back to the boat and started creating one on the fly. The adventure had officially begun.

First order of business: the camper top. It had been taken down for transport, and with storms forecasted, I needed to get it back up fast. How hard could it be? Seven canvas panels, a few windows — like a jigsaw puzzle.

Well, in mathematics there’s something called a factorial — the number of ways you can arrange a set of items. Let’s just say I explored most of those arrangements before I figured out the right sequence. What should have taken five minutes took hours. By the time I finished, I was drenched in sweat.

The Reality Check

With the camper top finally in place, I needed to vent the cabin and start thinking about the basics: fuel, systems, and storage. The fuel tank alone was a shocker — 100 gallons. Convert that to litres and your eyes water. Thankfully, the boat was still on the trailer, so I had time before I had to face that reality.

Unlike a small runabout or fishing boat, this wasn’t something you just back down the ramp, launch, and tie up. This was an event. It took three people just to manage the logistics. If I wanted to do this solo in the future, I’d need to lean on technology.

So what’s next? The list was growing fast, and the real work was only beginning.

Before I could tow the boat home, I needed a place to put her. Luckily, my neighbour up the street had recently bought a marina as his retirement project, and he was fixing it up with his kids. I gave them a call, and his youngest son — who remembered me — picked up.

“I just bought a boat,” I said. “Any chance you’ve got space?”

“No problem,” he replied. “All the slips are full, but bring her down and we’ll store her on land.”

Perfect. That gave me time to prepare the boat properly, and when a slip opened up, I’d be ready to launch.

The Tow Begins

Now, Lake St. Clair to the Grand River off Lake Erie isn’t exactly a straight shot. Add in a long weekend, unpredictable weather, and a 27-foot boat on a 30-foot trailer, and you’ve got yourself an adventure.

Fuel consumption was the first surprise. My truck was working hard, and the diesel gauge dropped faster than I liked. Being thrifty (my wife calls it cheap), I found an Indigenous-run gas station along the way. Let me just say — hats off to them. Affordable fuel, friendly service, and a setup that saved me. With the boat standing nearly 10 feet tall and 8 feet wide, I needed an outside pump where I could pull straight through. If I’d had to back up with a lineup behind me, it would’ve been a nightmare.

This was my first lesson in navigating with a boat — and it wasn’t even in the water yet.

The Long Haul

The trip was slow. Real slow. Between traffic, weather, and the GPS bouncing us on and off the 400-series highways, my average speed was about 60 km/h. We stopped for dinner, which delayed us even more, and I started to feel that creeping “range anxiety” — not for an electric car, but for my truck. Every time I pushed the speed, the fuel gauge dropped like a stone. A preview, I figured, of boating life to come.

I called the marina to let them know we’d be late. “No worries,” they said. “We live on site. We’ll be here.” That eased the stress a little.

The Final Turn

As we got closer, traffic built up behind me. You know the feeling — you’re stuck behind someone towing something massive, crawling along at half the speed limit. Let’s just say I got a few “salutes” from impatient drivers, some with only one finger.

Finally, the marina came into view. And of course, the entrance was a sharp turn, on an incline, with cars trying to get out while horns blared behind me. Perfect.

I slowed to a crawl, swung as wide as I could, and with the grace of God and the patience of a saint, I made the turn. For a moment, I worried the boat might tip, but once we were through, it was smooth sailing into the yard.

The boat was home.

When I first started looking into boat insurance, I thought it would be as simple as calling up an agent, saying “I’ve got a boat,” and waiting for them to hand me a shiny policy. Turns out, it’s more like applying for a mortgage—except wetter, and with more serial numbers.

The truth is, insurers don’t just want to know you own a boat. They want to know everything about it. Think of them as nosy neighbours who also happen to control your premiums.

The Paper Chase

Here’s what I quickly learned:

• Ownership papers, registration numbers, and serial numbers are non-negotiable. Without them, you’re basically saying, “Trust me, it floats.”
• A marine survey is like a doctor’s note for your boat. It proves your vessel isn’t one stiff breeze away from becoming an artificial reef.
• Photos are essential. Not glamour shots with the sunset and a glass of wine—though those are nice—but clear, honest pictures that show the boat’s actual condition.
• A motor assessment reassures insurers that your engine won’t explode the moment you leave the dock.

Manuals: The Forgotten Treasure Chest

Here’s the part most people overlook: manuals. Every boat comes with a stack of them—engine, electronics, even that mysterious bilge pump you swore you’d figure out someday. Add-ons and upgrades? They need manuals too.

And here’s the kicker: those manuals don’t belong in a dusty drawer at home. They belong on the boat. Because when something goes wrong, you don’t want to be 10 miles offshore thinking, “If only I had that wiring diagram instead of this soggy sandwich.”

Logs: Not Just for Captains in Old Movies

A maintenance log is your best friend. Every oil change, filter swap, or impromptu duct-tape repair goes in there. It’s like a diary, but instead of teenage angst, it’s filled with grease and receipts.

And don’t forget the ship’s log. Sure, it feels a little old-fashioned, but it tells the story of your time on the water—where you went, what the weather was like, and whether you managed to dock without an audience (rare, in my case). Insurers love it because it shows you’re paying attention.

Why Bother?

Because when you’re organized, you’re not just making life easier for yourself—you’re showing insurers you’re the kind of boater who doesn’t cut corners. That can mean:

• Lower rates
• Faster claims
• And fewer headaches when something inevitably breaks (because something always does).

The Bottom Line

Getting insured isn’t just about filling out forms. It’s about telling the story of your boat—through paperwork, logs, photos, and yes, manuals. The better you tell that story, the more confidence insurers will have in covering you.

So yes, it’s time to get organized. Think of it as herding paperwork instead of cats. At least the paperwork doesn’t scratch.