Carnett: An elegy to a handmade paddleboard
A boy, a paddleboard and an island.
Those were the ingredients of my childhood that added up to an almost idyllic existence. It was the stuff dreams are made of, created by the likes of Robert Louis Stevenson and Edgar Rice Burroughs.
My grandparents purchased a home on Balboa Island’s Marine Avenue in 1942. My grandfather was the head civilian chef at the new Santa Ana Army Airbase on the bluff overlooking Newport.
My mom, a recent graduate of Santa Monica High, was secretary to the base’s mess officer. My dad was a mess sergeant at the base. My parents met in 1943 and married in 1944. I came along in 1945.
My parents and I lived in a cozy apartment behind my grandparent’s house until I was 7.
In 1947 I was 2. My dad had been out of the Army for a year and worked as a clerk at Hershey’s Market on Balboa Island. He was 25. Dad was soon to go to work for a large commercial dairy and remain there 30-plus years.
Dad’s younger brother, Bob, was 23 and finishing a tour of duty with the military in Long Beach. Bob would hitchhike to Balboa Island and stay with us on weekends. We spent lots of time at the beach.
One weekend he showed up with a gift for my dad: a beautiful 96-inch tall, 18-inch-wide paddleboard. She had a depth of perhaps 31/2 inches. Bob, an artisan who years later would become an artist, built it himself in a military woodshop. He poured his heart into it.
The paddleboard consisted of marine plywood molded over a wood skeleton frame. It felt and smelled wonderful. The wood was flawless with a high varnish finish. She was a beaut.
My dad would lay me prone on the front of the board, lay behind me and paddle us into the bay. When my brother came along, Dad would paddle both of us into the bay.
But the most fun was when Dad would paddle us from our Marine Avenue launching site on South Bay Front out into the middle of Newport Harbor. Or, we’d paddle down the Grand Canal and circle the island. Periodically, we’d slide off the board and swim.
I remember we once paddled to a sand spit called Shark Island and pulled the paddleboard onto the beach to do some exploring. I hoped to find pirates. Shark Island, now Linda Isle, is today a gated community.
I remember that Uncle Bob’s paddleboard would gradually take on water, though she never came close to sinking. We could hear water sloshing after an hour or so. Every time we pulled her out of the water we stood her on end, pulled the cork and let her drain.
We kept the paddleboard in my grandparents’ garage. She was always ready for a saltwater adventure down the Grand Canal or out into the bay amongst the moored boats.
In 1952, my family moved to a new home in Costa Mesa. The paddleboard remained in my grandparents’ garage, and we frequently came down to use it.
In 1965, long after my grandfather’s death, my grandmother sold the Marine Avenue residence. I was in the Army stationed overseas and my brother, Bill, was on his way into the Air Force.
When we came home in 1967, he and I both asked the same question: “What happened to the paddleboard?” No one knew, but we suspected it’d been gifted to some lucky Balboa Island resident.
Many years later Bill and I attended a family reunion. Uncle Bob, now 90, was there. He’d lived in Carson City, Nev., for decades. We hadn’t seen him in years. Sadly, my dad had passed away several years earlier.
There were hugs all around. Then Uncle Bob got a wistful look in his eyes.
“Do you boys know what happened to that paddleboard I made for your dad?” he asked.
Sadly, no we don’t, Uncle Bob.
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JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.