Power Cat Boat

Dick Davis
14t Modified
"Frankenkitty"
...
Link to video
of this one running
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The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
as adapted by Bill Graham
( AKA, The Headless Boatman of Itchy Dick's Dip )
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In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the shores
of any one of a 1000 lakes, at that broad expansion of larger
tributary's denominated by the ancient Polish navigator Chum
Scupperski, and where they always prudently shortened sail and
implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies
a small market town or rural port, which by some is called
Dicksburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the
name of Dick's Hang-out. This name was given; we are told, in former
days, by the good housewives of the adjacent county, from the
inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village
tavern/boat house on market days.

Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to
it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this
village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little lake or rather
pond of some size among high hills, which is one of the quietest
places in the whole world. A small brook glides through the trees to
it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional
lonely shrill of a loon or the calling of a large bullfrog is almost
the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility.

I recollect that, when experiencing my first exploit in launching my
recently restored runabout in shallows at the launch ramp next to a
grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the lake. I had
backed down onto the ramp (four times) at say around noontime, when
all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my
own engine (a Scott 75), as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and
was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should
wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its
distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life,
I know of none more promising than this little Lake.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of
its surrounding inhabitants, who are descendants from the original
Dutch fiberglass workers (Some say elf's) this sequestered end of the
Loch has long been known by the name of "Dicks Dip", and its rustic
lads are called the "Itchy Boys" throughout all the neighboring
country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and
to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched
by Elvis, during the early days of fiberglass boat manufacturing in
the settlement; others tell a story of an old Indian chief, the
prophet or wizard of his tribe, that held what some called a
strange "Bat Finned" canoe races there before the country was
discovered by privately funded Austrian explorer Helmut Von
Kiekhaefer. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway
of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good
people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie of finned boats.
They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to
trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear
music and voices in the air. (No doubt, given that the air is
constantly filled with the smell of hot resin and paint fumes!) The
whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and
twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across
the Lake than in any other part of the country, and a little Green
flash like nightmare, with it's whole ghastly scene of horrific
aberrations of lightning speed.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted lake region,
and seems to be in command of all the powers of the air and water, is
the apparition of a figure riding on the back of a giant pumpkin like
sea creature, He is said to be without a head. It is also said by
some to be the ghost of a release wax mold technician, whose head had
been carried away by a explosion caused by a horrific two part
expanding closed cell foam experiment gone horribly wrong, and who is
ever and anon seen by the local folk hurrying along in the gloom of
night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to
the lake, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially
to the vicinity of the Boathouse and storage yard at no great
distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those
parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating
facts concerning this specter, allege that the body of the technician
having been buried in the hull of a boat only to be used as ballast!
The ghost rides forth to the scene of others boating on the lake in a
nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he
sometimes passes along the lake, like a midnight blast, is owing to
his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the boat yard before
daybreak. (or last call at the pub)

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has
furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows;
not unlike that of Dr. Frankenkitty but better know stories of the local
specter known at all the country firesides, by the name of the
Headless Boatman of Itchy Dick's Dip.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is
not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley surrounding the
lake, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for
a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered
that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the
witching influence of the air, (Paint fumes?) and begin to grow
imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.
I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud for it is in such
little retired lakes, found here and there embosomed in the great
State of Minnesota, that population, manners, and customs remain
fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is
making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless
country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks
of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in
their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current.
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of
Dick's Dip, yet I question whether I should not still find the same
trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom of
boathouses and barns that dot the countryside.

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a unique period of
American history, that is to say, some forty years since, a worthy
Wright of the name of Itchabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he
expressed it, "harried," in Dick's Dip, for the purpose of
instructing the children of the vicinity in the fine art of outboard
motor and fiberglass repair. As a native Minnesotan, he was always
one the look out for his next winter project!

His boathouse was a low building of one large room, rudely
constructed of pallets and old outboard motor packing crates; the
windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old outboard
repair manuals. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a
with bow cleat handle on the door, and a stern light pole set against
the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect
ease, The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant
situation, just at the foot of the lake, with a brook running close
by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence
the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons,
might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a Scott
outboard; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the
master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the
appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along
the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious
man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil
the carbonator." Itchabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled.

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate
of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of
the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or at
least the one who had not taken out restraining orders against him.
Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The
revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been
scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a
huge feeder.

During one of his daily walkabouts his travels took him down an old
dirt road known to the locals as Elgin lane, there came upon a small
farmhouse with an old faded sign nailed to a tree that read, Boat for
Sale… Hum he thought to himself maybe this is just the winter project
I've been looking for! As he made is way up the wandering path just
passed the little white picket fence, he could definitely smell a mix
of fresh herbs and the warm lingering odor of fresh baked goods in
the air as he climbed the front porch steps to the house stopping to
take another huge whiff of what surly must be some sort of pure
chocolate decadence. You see Itchabod loved anything chocolate. As
he reached the porch deck he could hear what sounded like Jimmy
Buffet coming from an old Victrola. He knocked at the screen door…
He could just make out a small figure of a woman slowly rising from
what Itchabod assumed must be her needlework, it was a sweet widow
woman of retiring years, She called out who is it? "Hello" Itchabod
said in a soft calm voice. "I saw your sign out by the road… The one
that says, boat for sale? "it's out covered up in the barn" she
replied, "please help your self, and I'll be out directly." Itchabod
slowly made his way around the house and down a very neatly kept path
of lovely flowers, He glanced over as he passed her perfectly
preserved 1976 Pacer Wagon complete with fake woody siding. He
thought to himself it looked as if it had just rolled off the
showroom floor!

Before him stretched the barn and although the structure looked as if
it was suffering from more that just an extreme lack of paint, yet
after a closer look the barn was still in great shape. He pulled the
oak peg out of the large metal latch on the massive barn door that
looked as though it must have been forged by the hands of a skilled
black smith some 100 years ago. He grabbed the large wooden tog and
gave it a push! Surprisingly the door rolled wide open with ease.
As light pierced the darkness of the vast treasure trove that spanned
before him, it was easy to see that no one had been in there is many
years. All around the barn sheets and tarps of all different sizes
covered the treasures yet undiscovered.

Just then he heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching on the
gravel drive from behind him. He turns to see the old lady from the
house walking up the path with a stack of papers covered in plastic
folded under her left arm, and in her right was a plate full of hot
brownies fresh from the oven. She looked a bit unusual for a lady of
her years… She was warring Birkenstocks with stretch pants and a
large tie-dyed t-shirt; She had long and very beautiful salt and
pepper colored hair. Not at all unattractive he thought to himself,
wondering to himself I wonder what she'd look like in a
bikini? "Fresh Herb Brownie" she said as she lifted the
commemorative Elvis collector plate stacked with some of what could
only be described as some of best brownies ever made outside of
Humbolt County. Offering free food to Itchabod was like offering a
homeless man a ham sandwich! Itchabod reached out and quickly grabbed
three in one hand knocking the plate slightly out of balance causing
her to reach out with her other hand to steady the plate when all the
magazines, literature and paperwork spilled out from under her arm
onto the ground. She handed the plate to Itchabod then bent down to
collect everything, it was at this point that Itchabod started pack
his cheeks like a chipmunk storing winter nuts. As she got back up
from collecting all the papers she noticed the full top two layers of
brownies were now missing from the plate! Slow down young man, she
said as she pulled the plate away. I think I need a big glass of
milk Itchabod said as he stuffed a few more into his pockets. I'm
sure you do she said chuckling, as she set the paperwork down on a
box and headed back to the kitchen with a plate full of crumbs and
seeds.

It's here that our story begins…

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