Like every boat-crazy teenager growing up in the 1960s, I had a bad case of the hots for a Donzi 16 Ski Sporter, a sexy babe magnet that, at a little short of $5,000 with a 165-horsepower Eaton Interceptor engine and a few options, was beyond my high-school budget. But I could see myself in the Donzi’s tuck-and-roll bucket seat, the Girl of My Dreams (Ginger or Mary Ann?) lounging on the wraparound bench seat, or clinging for dear life to the hand rails, as I skimmed across the whitecaps at 39 knots—advertised top speed with the Interceptor, and therefore the speed I planned to run at all the time.
It was not to be. Instead of a cherry-red Donzi, I piloted a dingedup 12-foot aluminum skiff with a used 10-horsepower Evinrude—not a babe magnet by any definition, but still lively enough for a thrilling ride on a choppy day, and fast enough to get me into trouble now and then. I had just as much fun as the rich kids with their fancy speedboats, and at a fraction of the cost. The metal skiff withstood abuse—beaching, inadvertent
