Some objects quietly preserve not only our childhood, but the places where we grew up. For me, vintage wooden waterskis will always carry the sounds, excitement, and occasional danger of summers along Algonac’s St. Clair River...
It seems like yesterday; I wanted a real slalom ski but couldn't afford one of the new O'Brien composite models. So I did what a lot of kids did back then—I tried making my own.
I removed the bindings, carried the skis into my high school wood shop, and ran one through the table saw at a slight angle to cut a tunnel into the bottom. After sanding and resealing it, I added a four-inch fin and convinced myself I'd built something just as good.
The first time I tried it was in Goose Bay. Our boat didn't have enough power to pull someone up on a single ski, so we'd always start on two skis and then drop one after getting on plane.
Halfway through the run, I turned around because our spotter wasn't paying attention.
At that exact moment, I ran over the dropped ski. The engine kicked up, a man fishing in the reeds began screaming at us that that could have been a kid in the water, and for a few terrifying seconds all hell broke loose.
Whenever I see a pair of vintage wooden waterskis today, I don't just remember learning to slalom. I remember the sound of that ski disappearing beneath the boat, the man yelling, the engine flying up, and how quickly an ordinary summer afternoon could turn into something unforgettable.
Some objects quietly preserve not only our childhood, but the places where we grew up. For me, vintage wooden waterskis will always carry the sounds, excitement, and occasional danger of summers along Algonac’s St. Clair River...
It seems like yesterday; I wanted a real slalom ski but couldn't afford one of the new O'Brien composite models. So I did what a lot of kids did back then—I tried making my own.
I removed the bindings, carried the skis into my high school wood shop, and ran one through the table saw at a slight angle to cut a tunnel into the bottom. After sanding and resealing it, I added a four-inch fin and convinced myself I'd built something just as good.
The first time I tried it was in Goose Bay. Our boat didn't have enough power to pull someone up on a single ski, so we'd always start on two skis and then drop one after getting on plane.
Halfway through the run, I turned around because our spotter wasn't paying attention.
At that exact moment, I ran over the dropped ski. The engine kicked up, a man fishing in the reeds began screaming at us that that could have been a kid in the water, and for a few terrifying seconds all hell broke loose.
Whenever I see a pair of vintage wooden waterskis today, I don't just remember learning to slalom. I remember the sound of that ski disappearing beneath the boat, the man yelling, the engine flying up, and how quickly an ordinary summer afternoon could turn into something unforgettable.
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