I was 8 years old, and the Vinoy Basin, in St. Petersburg, Florida, was my private kingdom to patrol. Making my rounds, I spotted a skiff barely floating off shore. A few days later, I noticed that it had drifted into the harbor, awash with the tide. The next day, there it was: half-buried in sand in the northwest corner, the one closest to the Flagler-built hotel. It was an honest-to-goodness treasure!
The frayed, sunburned painter told me it had come adrift long ago, as did the barnacles inside and out. There were no markings. But the thwarts were sturdy, the oarlocks stout. It was a 16-foot generic fishing skiff — or, more accurately, it had been a generic skiff , until I started to dream upon it.
Two wide…
