The boats appear in all sizes and shapes, and the special ones share a common bond: They are "classics." For the most part, this means they were originally built well before World War II. More often than not they gleam, stem to stern, with varnish. Varnish is the mother's milk of classic boats.

Snooty was such a boat. She was a 1929 Chris Craft--a slender queen that could slip through the water at 30 knots on a flat day. Her stem was nearly vertical, and there was a forward cockpit that would seat three in mahogany director's chairs. The salon was graced with four windows on each side, lace curtains, and a gently curving roof. Behind the salon was a raised helm with a silver spotlight commanding the top of the windshield. There was a visitors' bench just behind the helm, and a rear cockpit down three steps. All in all, Snooty was of a splinter of nostalgia.

Late on a sunny morning of the Memorial Day weekend a year ago, a new owner piloted Snooty from somewhere along the lake toward the oldest marina & boatyard on the north end. As Snooty closed on the outer dock, it became apparent that her crew was made up of four younger women and one middle-aged man, a rather portly fellow swathed in white. He was wearing a tilted, captain's hat heavy with a profusion of gold braid,

His relationship with the marina & boatyard gang started on a sour note. Gold Braid brought Snooty in far too fast and pushed a pile of water into the docks, fingers, and boats that already carpeted the marina. The result was rolling vessels, clanging halyards, and the thunking of wood on wood as Snooty scraped into the outer dock...with the help of a lot of yelling, captain at crew.

Yur thrust his head up through a forward hatch of a bouncing boat tied inside the outer dock. "Take it easy," he shouted as he hung on and one of his tools crashed onto the sole beside his foot.

Yur didn't carry much age on him. Some people who hung out at the boatyard underestimated his years by at least ten, if they dabbled in such intellectual pursuits. More than a few who were so inclined missed Yur's number by fifteen or twenty.

He could still lift the end of a 19' Boston Whaler off the ground, if necessary, or hoist himself to the top of a mast to un-snag a halyard. There were few knots he couldn't tie, although the occasions to use his arsenal of knowledge grew fewer each year. Yur also knew all there was to know about wooden boats on Tahoe. There was no tale anyone could tell that he couldn't top. And he usually did. More than anything else, though, Yur liked to play small practical jokes. He would give you the T-shirt off his back if you were in need. But if you appeared too well off or uppity, you were fair game.

Within a short time of docking, Snooty's four sweeties had disappeared ashore. Then, as was the usual practice, a variety of boatyard regulars drifted down to the new arrival, Snooty, to look her over. They walked slowly by in twos and threes throughout the early afternoon. Gold Braid paid little attention to the locals. He was vigorously sanding the top of a table that occupied the center of the rear, plush-cushioned cockpit. Snooty was definitely a party boat.

As the afternoon wore on, Gold Braid's pace of sanding and sweating increased; it was punctuated by more and more frequent glances upwards at the gathering clouds blowing in from the west. He was down to bare wood by the time Yur crawled off an old Hacker Craft 22' runabout and sauntered down the dock to do his own examination of the newcomer.

"Nice boat," he nodded to get the conversation started.

"Yeah... Thank you. She's my big 38," Gold Braid grunted after looking up. He saw more was required of him. "I'm hoping it doesn't rain on my work," he continued. "Rain drops can absolutely ruin a varnish job, ya know."

Yur slowly ran his glance forward to aft with an intermediate stop in the windows of the salon. "Yea, it would be a shame to get your varnish job wet." There was a pause as Yur slid four beefy fingers along a section of the cap rail. It could use some sanding and re-doing, too. Up close, Snooty needed care.

"What kind of varnish do you use?" Gold Braid queried nervously. "I got guests coming tomorrow." The prospect of either bare, newly-sanded wood or a rain-on-wet-varnish mess was gaining on him as the sunlight thinned, the wind picked up, and a few white caps appeared out on the lake.

"I'd consider getting and using rain vanish if I were you," answered Yur, looking squarely at the concerned skipper. "Then you won't have to worry."

"Rain varnish? Never heard of such stuff."

"Works like a charm," Yur deadpanned. "We never use anything else here," he said back over his shoulder as he ambled away and up the main dock. By the time he got to his white truck at the back of the yard, Gold Braid was entering the boatyard STORE.

"May I help you?" purred Yur's niece from behind the counter. She had observed the bumpy, all-girl crew traipse ashore earlier.

"Yes, well, ah... I understand you sell, ah... rain varnish, and I need a quart for my table top," he finished quickly.

With instant insight she choked back a snicker and glanced out the open door into the yard. Yur was nowhere to be seen. "I am sorry to tell you that we are out at the moment," she said smoothly, "but I am expecting some last thing this afternoon from UPS." She could deadpan, too.

"Which boat is yours?" she continued.

"Mine's Snooty, the big 38 down there," he answered solemnly, his weakened confidence rebuilding.

"So it's really 40 feet?" she came back, sweetly. The per-foot rate for overnight moorage was posted on the wall just behind her head, and she was the collection agency.

"No, no, it's 38 feet," he replied, trapped.

"Well, shall I reserve some rain varnish for you to pick up early?" she questioned as she wrote up a moorage receipt. "We open at 7:30, and I'll sit the varnish on that shelf right over there for you. It dries very quickly," she continued as she pointed to the paint department. "And I'll put it on your credit card now, along with the moorage." Gold Braid nodded and reached for his billfold.

By eight the next morning everyone within a mile knew about the caper, and a goodly number of the immediate community was present at the yard in various, nonchalant poses, like actors on stage behind the curtain before it opens. Inside the store, someone--exactly who has never been determined for certain--had labeled the shelf, Rain Varnish, and there, indeed, sat a single quart of the unlabeled, precious fluid. But Snooty was gone.

Rumor chased rumor for days. The most likely one was that during the evening, at the near-by tavern, Gold Braid's crew overheard what had happened at the yard and the ladies carried the word home to the captain of the big 38.

The quart of Rain Varnish has rested on the shelf for many months now, unclaimed.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Steven C. Brandt