I was a salvage savage in the years before I got sick. Winter storms on the bay, 50 mph winds, my kayak, 400 feet of old crabbing rope, a 20 oz framing hammer, and a PFD stuffed full of log dogs was my happy place. I’ve waged epic battles scratching furiously for the shore, as me and my prey swept perilously toward the bar. I’ve had to let a few beauties go, but I landed quite a few as well, some of those ended up being duds, but once in a while the insane amount of effort it takes to bring a log from floater to lumber paid off in some really nice planks. A few of these are still secreted away in various barns and garages along with various other boards themselves salvaged in a variety of ridiculous schemes, some involving the simultaneous use of whitewater kayaks, and CHAIN SAWS. Others involving miles long carries, one board at a time. These boards, stacked along side kayaks that now have nearly a decade of dust on them are the last vestiges of another lifetime. A life I burned through with reckless abandon.
Visiting my piles for the first time in years to look for spar stock was hard. Saltwater, sweat, wood chips, fire, blood, rain, sun, friendships, break-ups, gain and loss, all locked inside those now dry boards. I feel like they hold more of my heart than I have left. They are still solid and I am not.
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