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As sophisticated as Seattleites claim to be, at least once a year we are not far removed from the so-called “white trash” that frequent NASCAR competitions. Getting drunk, acting like idiots and watching in awe as powerful engines propel vehicles around in circles (secretly hoping that one of them actually crashes—just nowhere near me) is as much a part of Seafair as any redneck auto race. The big difference is that Seattleites usually only comport themselves in that manner one weekend per year, whereas for our friends to the South, that kind of behavior is a way of life.

Although I attended every Seafair hydroplane race from 1982–1989, my memories of those events are random bits that form one “piece” with no particular shape or form, like a Jackson Pollock mosaic or something. The only indication of a timeline is which friends I share those memories with, which drugs were used, and whether or not there was driving involved. What I do recall quite clearly, however, is that I never actually paid to get in, it usually rained, and there was always plenty of alcohol.

If I were to make a list of Seafair memories, it would include falling asleep (passing-out) in the sun, getting scratched up by blackberry bushes while sneaking in, diving for beers out by the log boom, and getting high in the Honey Buckets. Other than that, everything is a multi-sensory blur of the deafening roar of “thunder boats,” the acrid taste of warm bear, the pungent smell of skunk weed, and the smoke trails left by the Blue Angels—all wrapped up in one damp package.

The events leading up to one Seafair in particular remain very clear in my memory, although I admit I had to call a couple buddies to make sure I got my facts straight for the writing of this article. What comes to mind most clearly are misdemeanor larceny, amateur raft-building, and plenty of Fosters Lager.

I was at least sixteen because a friend drove his family’s van as we stole everything we needed in order to make the raft, including four 55-gallon oil drums, four 8’X4’ pieces of plywood, some two-by-fours, several coils of rope, assorted lawn furniture, and a barbecue. The idea was simple enough: construct a “deck” with the plywood and two-by-fours, lash them to the oil drum “pontoons,” hang a small, outboard motor off one end, and we would be good to go. It would’ve worked too, if not for one, small detail.

The actual raft-building took us a lot longer than expected. We had decided to construct and launch our vessel from behind the Museum of History and Industry in Montlake, figuring that because of its isolated location and the continuous hum of traffic on the 520, we would draw little if any attention to ourselves. But because the project was spontaneous, and none of us had ever actually built a raft before, we worked through the night, making plenty of noise taking it apart and rebuilding it until we were satisfied that we had a functional construction.

It occurred to someone to build the raft in the shape of a giant, square doughnut with a hole in the middle that we could use as an escape hatch or a latrine or whatever. When the police finally did show up after a concerned citizen reported the ruckus, they were more concerned with the safety of our craft than our disturbing the peace; they didn’t even mention the Foster’s Lager, the lawn furniture or the barbecue. We appealed to their nostalgia of Seafairs past, somehow convinced them that our boat would float, and they were nice enough to suggest we hurry up and finish because the sun was starting to rise.

I have never been the accused of being a very mechanical person, although I have been accused of being car-tarded and handi-man-capped. So, when I pointed out that there was a plug missing in one of our stolen oil drums, I accepted one of my more mechanically-inclined friends’ claim that if we just turned the barrel so that the “hole” was facing upwards, the water would never get in. Maybe it was the Foster’s Lager, maybe it was fatigue, or maybe it was just plain ignorance—in my case, I plead the latter—but rather than look for something to plug the hole, we rotated the oil drum so that the hole was facing upwards, put the final touches on the raft, and set sail.

To be honest, I was impressed that the thing even floated, and I took a seat in a chaise lounge as we motored through the Arboretum, out around Foster Island and under the Western high-rise of the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge. The journey was rough—oil drums aren’t the least bit hydrodynamic—and as we reached the open water of Lake Washington, the wakes of other boats and the waves of the early morning wind began sloshing up onto the deck of our barge. Yet we were afloat, and slowly but surely making progress.

Just how slowly? As we approached Madison Beach, we recognized several of my older brother’s friends as they pulled-up in a truck at the top of the hill, unloaded the components for their own customized raft. In the time it took us just to pass the beach, they had put their craft together, launched it, and sped away toward the Stan Sayres Pits. Unlike my friends and me, these guys had obviously planned ahead, and I would like to add that one of them was well-known throughout the neighborhood as a mechanical genius. Their “floating couch” was based on a very hydrodynamic Styrofoam pontoon topped with a well-designed wooden deck and, you guessed it, a full-sized sofa. We watched with envy as they quickly disappeared into the distance.

To be honest, we never had a chance of reaching Stan S. Sayres Memorial Park. We were still several hundred yards from the I-90 Bridge when we started to sink. Contrary to what my friend believed, the water did indeed get into the hole in the top of oil drum number four, and the raft suddenly began listing in one corner as the barrel filled-up. In the hope that getting rid of excess ballast would keep our ship afloat, the barbecue immediately went overboard—we didn’t even have anything to grill—but 55 gallons of water weighs a lot, and we soon realized that she was going down whether we liked it or not.

We shouted out for help as dozens of boats passed us by, but either they misunderstood our SOS or they just didn’t care. They waved at us, gave us the finger, or showed us their “tits,” but nobody made any effort to help us. Finally, one conscientious boater came to our rescue, threw us a line and managed to tow us close enough to land so that we could wade ashore, rescuing the outboard, the Foster’s Lager and one oar. Fortunately, a guy we knew lived nearby, so we stashed our stuff in his yard before continuing our journey to the hydro races on foot.

Although I did head down to the Saturday time trials for the races last year (as a reporter with free “pits” passes, mind you), it didn’t even occur to me to try and make it to the main event on Sunday. Years may have passed, and the name of the tournament varies from year to year depending on sponsorship, but the overall theme of the hydro races on Lake Washington has remained the same since I was a young pup, full of vim and vigor: drink, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we will be too old for this shit.

Photo courtesy of lintmachine

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