Boat repairs make for a riveting experience

THE OTHER DAY I was reminiscing with my brother about how we used to prepare for the fall duck season in the summer prior. We’d reload shells, rig decoys, build blinds and patch waders.

But the most important job would be to hammer the rivets tight on our uncle’s old tin boat. This is part of the duck hunting tradition that I think young people these days are missing out on. Frankly, I blame it on the invention of boats that don’t leak.

Back then, manufacturers figured that if they gave you a boat that didn’t leak in 99 per cent of the hull, you got good value for your money. I think they had some kind of deal with sledge hammer manufacturers.

So, every August or so, if you had a riveted tin boat, as every duck hunter did, you would hammer the rivets tight to ensure they didn’t leak.

For those who have never had the pleasure of doing this, here’s how the process went.

First, someone would ascertain that the boat in

question was leaking.

A leak was found in one of two ways.

In the first method, the owner of the boat would take it out on a fishing trip and notice three to four drops of water on the bottom of the boat after eight hours on the lake, a duration which typically included one sun shower. Three or four drops was considered irrefutable proof that the boat leaked and was in urgent need of maintenance.

Alternately, if there was a bit of water in the boat when it was launched and none by the time we returned to the boat launch, that was also proof of a leak. Bear in mind that when I was a kid evaporation was one of those theories we thought was created by eggheads just so they could use another multisyllable word.

The end result, in either case, was a Saturday of hammering rivets tight.

First the boat was set overturned on two sawhorses. Then a crew of three was gathered.

The first was positioned under the boat with a 12-pound sledge. His job was to hold it tight against the internal head of the rivet that was going to be hammered. The second person was outside the boat with a two-pound sledge. His job was to hammer the wrong rivet – or his thumb.

The third person, the owner of the boat, supervised the entire operation from the comfort of a reclining lawn chair a few feet away. He was the only one with ear protection and a beer.

Thinking back on those days, I couldn’t remember who was inside the boat so I asked my brother.

“Hey,” I said, “who was inside the boat when we hammered rivets?”

“What did you say?” he asked.

Believe me, being outside the boat wasn’t easy either. You see, the average 12-foot tin boat had somewhere in the neighbourhood of 3 million or so rivets.

The process went something like this.

“I’m going to hammer the first rivet from the prow on the keel!” the hammerer would say.

“What did you say?” the guy under the boat would yell.

“Did you say ready?” the hammerer would ask. “What did you say?” “OK!” you’d reply. ONGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

This would be followed by, “I’m going to hammer the second rivet from the prow on the keel!” And so it went for the rest of the afternoon.

Eventually 2,999,999 rivets would be hammered tight.

And all that hammering would loosen a rivet.