James Finn Garner

One area of my mother's life in which she is a master is stitching. This is her needlepoint depiction of the boat my family owned, "The 5 Gs." Unlike so many nautical fetishists, we never called it by name. It was always just "the boat."

Some people buy a boat because of their background, that they grew up around water. (Dad grew up in Blue Island, Ill., which last touched a body of water when the glaciers retreated 14,000 years ago.) Or because they like restoration and using tools, or because they want to show off wealth. Dad had none of these motivations. He just showed up typically one evening and announced to Mom that, whatever the circumstances, we now owned a boat.

Mom tried to make the most of the boating lifestyle. She liked the socializing; the cocktails and Caconga (blender) parties; and, since Dad hated travel, the chance to go anywhere, even Toledo. But I remember many instances of her serving snacks to guests while we cruised the Detroit River, then throwing up below deck from seasickness.

My brothers and I tried to make the most of it, too. Despite the rich alcoholic boaters at the club and their idiotic pampered children. Despite cold winter weekends painting and repairing. Despite childhood summers trapped in an adult world.

And despite this, I still love boats. Love how they look, especially old wooden ones like the 5 Gs. Love the feeling when you sail on a big lake:  infinity above, below and on all sides. I still have a deep affection for remote locations in Ontario, downtown and industrial Detroit, and the tattered trappings of old receding wealth. And I would never be happy living anywhere far removed from the Great Lakes. Even Lake Erie.