The boathouse was a magical place when I was growing up. My mother’s side of the family had a small cottage in Ontario, and every summer we were tossed in the station wagon and driven northward. Getting there, as they say, was half the fun. The cottage was actually out in the bay, so the final leg was by boat. Did I mention that no grocery stores existed within 50 miles? That meant that on the way in we had to stop and buy enough provisions to last a week for two families. Luggage, groceries, fishing tackle, water skis, pets, and people had to be unloaded from said cars and repacked into a boat. Five miles out in the bay the process was reversed, and luggage and food had to be sent by pack mule up the dirt path to the cabin.

The fishing gear and water toys stayed in the harbor and were stashed in the boathouse. This was my domain. The first time I opened the door each year was like Christmas or a birthday. What was still there? Artifacts like ancient outdoor engines no longer in service were stored in its confines. An old Johnson and even older Evenrude hung in the corner, there for literally generations. They were furniture. They were history. They were heirlooms. The oil stains on the wooden slatted floor were badges of honor of broken props and rescue missions.

Even more enthralling for this young angler was the antique tackle. A couple of old bait-casting rods were made out of metal. That’s right, a metal fishing rod. The old Shakespeare reel was spooled with thick black linen line, and an original June Bug spinner was still tied on. Little casting was needed with these rods; one simply free-spooled the lure threaded with a live night crawler straight down below the boat to catch smallmouth bass. A couple of those rods fished with President Roosevelt when he toured the bay. True story.

On another wall hung retired lures, their treble hook dug into the slats. These were even more magical to me. Old Pikie Minnows, Creek Chubs, Daredevil spoons, River Runts, and more were there. Broken or rusted hooks, teeth marks — oh, the stories my imagination told. As many as eight families visited the cabin each summer, and no one dared remove these decorations.

Behind the gas cans I found several old metal tackle boxes. Forcing the creaking lids open revealed more treasure: spoons, jigs, swivels, spools of line, pocket knives. Every summer I took inventory to make sure everything was still there. The back corner held the sails, buoys, and rigging for sailboats and waterskiing. Again, many were no longer in service. It wasn’t due to laziness that they weren’t removed; they were given a proper burial and place of honor. I spent hours in the boathouse each day. Rigging rods, fixing tackle, and gassing up boats, and staying out of the adults’ way lest I have to haul more firewood.

It’s been many years since my last trip, but the smells and sounds of the boathouse still warm my heart. I can feel the weight of the wooden door as I shoulder it open. I can hear the boards creak as I step in. I can smell the oil and gas mixed with fish slime and suntan lotion. I can smell the musty sails and boat cushions. It was better than French perfume to this lad.

I’ll bet that some of you can relate. You had Grandpa’s garage, the horse barn, or Mom’s greenhouse. So much history and so many life lessons that can’t be taught in school were learned in these special sanctuaries. I don’t miss the cabin or those summer pilgrimages so much because nothing can stay the same forever. But when the log is on the fire and I reminisce of days gone by, I invariably end up back in the boathouse, drinking in the best memories a boy can have.