When I was young, I used to think my father’s boat was indestructible. Built with his own hands, plank by plank, it wasn’t just a fishing vessel-it was part of our family. Every summer we would head out from the coast near Naples, Florida, the Gulf breeze in our hair, sandwiches in our bags, and nothing ahead but the deep blue sea. The boat wasn’t perfect-there were always little things that needed fixing-but in my eyes, it was the best thing in the world.
My dad named her Margie, after my mom. The faded paint on the hull still bore her name when the boat was eventually parked in our backyard years later. That name, in blocky blue letters, greeted me every morning from the kitchen window-a quiet reminder of simpler days, of water and waves, of laughter echoing across the bay.
Years passed. My father aged, as fathers do, and eventually, the boat came to rest in my yard after he passed away. I told myself I’d fix it, restore it to glory, keep it as a tribute to him. I even bought a few tools, ordered marine paint online, made plans in a worn notebook. But life kept getting in the way. The kids had soccer practice. Work became more demanding. The weekends slipped away like waves on the shore.
Soon the boat became little more than an oversized flower bed-its hull cracked, paint peeling, a haven for squirrels and fallen leaves. The garden hose snaked under it. Rust gathered on the trailer hitch. In winter, it vanished under layers of Gulf Coast rain tarps. And each spring, I promised myself, “This will be the year.” But it never was.
I knew I needed to let it go. I just didn’t know how.
Then one evening, my youngest daughter-only six-looked at me and asked, “Daddy, why do we keep that broken ship?” Her tone wasn’t mocking. It was genuine curiosity. But something about it cracked open a space in me I’d tried to seal shut.
That night, I sat on the back step with a beer in hand, looking at the boat. I remembered the time we got caught in a sudden storm and Dad calmly navigated us back, joking the whole way. I remembered the time I fell overboard trying to impress a girl with my cannonball dive. I remembered sleeping in the cabin under starlight, listening to the gentle slap of water against the hull. Those memories were still beautiful. But they were memories.
The next day, I started researching abandoned boat removal in Naples. At first, I felt like a traitor. Like I was about to delete the last page of a cherished book. But the more I read, the more I realized I wasn’t alone. There were people just like me-guilty, nostalgic, uncertain. But many spoke of the peace they felt after finally saying goodbye.
That gave me the courage to make the call.
The man on the other end of the line didn’t rush me. When I told him it was my father’s boat, he paused, then said, “We understand. We’ve seen this before. We’ll treat it with the respect it deserves.” I nearly cried on the phone. Maybe I did a little.
On the day of the removal, the crew arrived early. They were kind, professional, and quiet. As they worked, I sat on the porch with my coffee, watching memories float by like clouds. The sound of the winch, the creak of old wood-it was like hearing my childhood one last time.
One of the workers came over, knelt down, and asked if I wanted to keep anything. I chose a single wooden oar with a chipped handle and my dad’s initials carved into the grip. It’s hanging in my garage now. Sometimes I run my fingers over the letters and smile.
When the truck pulled away with the boat, I felt a weight lift and settle at the same time. Part of me was lighter, unburdened. Another part sank, like an anchor finding the ocean floor. But I knew it was time. Holding on any longer wouldn’t bring my father back. It wouldn’t revive the summers we’d shared.
In the weeks since, I’ve cleared the space where the boat used to sit. I planted a small garden there-tomatoes, basil, and sunflowers. My kids helped, and we laughed, got muddy, and told stories about Grandpa and his famous tuna sandwiches. The yard looks brighter now. So do I.
I’ve even looked into kayaking classes with my wife. Something smaller. Something new. I don’t want to replace what I had with my father. I want to create something fresh with the people I still have beside me.
Letting go wasn’t about forgetting. It was about honoring what was and making room for what could be.
If you’re sitting with something old in your yard, on your mind, or in your heart-know that letting go isn’t a betrayal. Sometimes, boat removal services in Naples, Floridaare the beginning of a new chapter. Not because you’re erasing the past, but because you’re making room for the present.
The boat removal company in Naples that helped me wasn’t just taking away wood and nails. They were helping me find closure-and maybe even a little hope.
Weeks later, something unexpected happened.
My son, eleven and full of curiosity, came to me with an idea. “Can we build something together?” he asked. “Maybe a small raft or something for the lake?” The same notebook I once used for boat repair plans is now filled with sketches and ideas drawn by little hands. We visit the hardware store on weekends. We argue over paddle designs and laugh over spilled paint.
Our project won’t rival my dad’s boat in craftsmanship. But it’s already something special. And in that simple, homemade raft, I see a bridge-not just across water, but between generations.
Now, when I look at my yard, I don’t just see where the boat once stood-I see the future we’re building together.
