steering mechanism in one easy wrist action. The pilot simply had to pull the control stick back to go fast, forward to go slower or stop, and right or left to go right or left. A two-year-old could drive that boat.
After a snazzy paint job-gray/green on the hull and bright red on the back end, including silver diagonal racing stripes from top to bottom on the twin rudders-the Rock River Beast was ready for action.
"Hey, Dad," I squealed in my most excited ten-year-old voice, "it really does look like a boat! When can we take it out?"
"Not until I figure out how to keep your hands out of the propeller," Dad mused as he walked through his collection of junk stacked neatly out behind the garage.
Since the bus seats were only a couple feet from the violent airplane propeller, he needed a propeller guard to keep human appendages, hats and fishing supplies out of the prop.
Dad made a circular propeller guard out of half-inch electrical conduit. He covered the conduit with heavy wire mesh. The contraption kept everything out of the boat's airplane propeller. If OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration) had been around then, they'd have been proud of my dad's safety measures.
Airboat complete, Dad's creative genius continued as he designed and built a three-wheeled trailer to haul it. The tires were short and fat, single-engine airplane tires, of course.
The day before Dad launched the airboat for the first time on Rock River in Rock Falls, Illinois, was the last weekend of peace and quiet the residents who lived along the river enjoyed. When that Beast hit the water with its mighty airplane engine blasting, the sound bounced off the shore, magnified itself a couple of times and echoed back along the surface of the water, creating what sounded like a swarm of B-52 bombers.
Every weekend for the next few summers my mother, younger brother and I slid onto those bus seats and covered our ears while Dad hand-popped the prop. I remember yelling with delight into the deafening roar that swallowed our words like a heavy blanket. We were off and blaring as the boat's broad flat surface slapped hard against the waves.
Before long, folks who lived along the river either dashed to their living room picture windows to wave or jerked themselves outside to view the thundering little red and green Beast as it skimmed and bounced across the water. We were a sight. Hair and jackets flying straight back toward the propeller and banana-sized grins on our faces. We owned the river by the sheer force of our sound.
As a somewhat laid-back sport fisherman, Dad soon discovered all the advantages of having a flat-bottomed boat. We could explore the back swamp areas that were often only five to ten inches deep. With the engine off, the only sound we could hear as we drifted lazily along was that of an occasional fish popping out of the water. I was never quite sure if it was really that quiet out there in the backwaters or if my ears were just temporarily out of whack once Dad shut off the screaming Beast.
Cont. p.3
