Several years ago, I was speaking with an enthusiast at a Cars & Coffee gathering about his pristine 1972 BMW 2002 tii. I was shocked when he told me how little he paid for it.
“It was in bad shape, languishing away in a garage,” he recalled. “The interior was shot, the dashboard was cracked and there were enough swallow droppings that I couldn’t even tell what color it was. But after a pressure wash and power vac, I saw she had great bones and was mechanically sound. So, I went for it.”
How is this the same car? I thought as I inspected the gleaming, flawless Inka Orange paint. I left envious, but with a goal: This year, I would have my own barn find, except mine would be a boat.
But life goes on, and I forgot about my proclamation. Then, the following summer, I was on vacation with my family at a friend’s beach house. All week, I was the first one awake, so I’d have a quick espresso and then head out bicycling on a single-speed cruiser around the small New Jersey community. The town was dotted with marinas, and I liked to cruise along the docks and in the boatyard.
It was on the third day that I spotted her. The obsessive thoughts and planning began.
The object of my affection had certainly seen better days. A partially shredded blue tarp covered the flybridge, but just forward of that, I could see a handsome, albeit pitted, radar arch with a curve that echoed the forward glass. Her hull looked true, just in need of some attention. There was no manufacturer nameplate, but from growing up in the area, I knew I was looking at a locally built boat.
I pedaled over to the boat shed and office to find out more. Clyde, the yard manager, indulged my obsession with the boat for the rest of the week. He confirmed her pedigree: a 1965 Pacemaker 36 Flybridge Convertible Sedan, built from carvel-planked Philippine mahogany in Lower Bank, N.J.
Right then and there, a smarter man would have spun on his heels. What I did instead was begin scouring the web for building plans. I looked at wooden-boat rescue pages, trying to ascertain how to get her up to the current standards of the American Boat & Yacht Council.
I also looped in my family, as I was counting on their sweat equity to achieve my goals. They seemed unmoved by my presentation, but I knew that would all change once we were cruising along in the family yacht.
Two more times, I went back to that yard. And then, Clyde finally got permission from the owner to let me on board. In short order, my dreams were dashed. I would like to blame the generations of raccoons that had made her their cozy home, but the truth is that decades of neglect had left her deck and interior unsalvageable. The bilge was a sarcophagus, home to a deceased pair of GM engines, the remains of several large rodents, and, as it turns out, my dreams of boat ownership.
Pedaling away with my blinders removed, I knew I had dodged a bullet. Still, I remain on the lookout for my own personal barn find.
This article was originally published in the March 2024 issue.
