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Maintaining Pontoon Boats with a Floating Lift - JetDock

While the terms build your own boat hoist 2019 hoist and boat lift may often be used interchangeably, there are several differences between these two means of docking a boat or removing it from the water. Both boat lifts and boat hoists are used primarily to bring a vessel out of water for maintenance, repair, or storage. This is especially useful in cold weather climates where leaving a boat inwater that freezes can damage it beyond repair.

The most glaring difference between the two is the size of the vessels which they cater to. A boat jour is used primarily for larger vessels; they are often freestanding in the water and are heavy enough to remain unmoved by the current.

While there are instances where a hoish hoist can be used for smaller vessels such as personal water craft, they are primarily manufactured for larger water crafts such as ocean-going yachts and fishing boats.

Boat hoists, however, cannot be used for very large vessels such as freighters and cruise ships; these must use specialty dry docks which have been built specifically for.

A boat hoist can be installed semi-permanently at a dock and are often free build your own boat hoist 2019. When in is essential a boat hoist can be anchored into a rock to give it more stability. As mentioned earlier storing a boat in water over time can cause many problems including peeling paint on a hull, corrosion of metal, and damage from large objects that may move in the water, knocking against hoiwt boat's exterior.

Using a boat hoist can eliminate these threats of damage for larger vessels and a boat lift can eliminate these threats for smaller water craft that are even more susceptible to damage such as a personal water craft or a ski boat. A boat lift is also more apt for smaller crafts because it is easy to remove and reinstall in a different location. This means that you can bring your boat or personal water craft out of the water at any given point on a 20199 of water, or have it go into the water at any given point depending on various conditions such as weather or how deep or shallow a certain point of the body of water is.

One of the best parts about the boat lift is that it eliminates the need for a boat ramp since boats and personal water craft can drive directly onto the boat lift. A freestanding boat lift is fastened to legs driven into the lake bed, seabed, or other form of bed below the water's surface.

These lifts are not in any way anchored to the neighboring piers or docks. Floating boat lifts do not have any legs; instead they are tied to a point on the shoreline, the neighboring pier or dock, or other stable point to avoid build your own boat hoist 2019 while still enabling an operator to exit the boat on foot. If you are looking for a boat lift that makes it easy for you to take your boat or personal water craft out bota a body of water for a specific amount of time, JetDock is what you are looking.

Build your own boat hoist 2019 answering a few quick questions we will be able to tell you which build your own boat hoist 2019 or boat lift is the perfect fit for you. Jet Dock Systems manufactures specialized floating boat lifts and drive-on docking systems for a wide variety of watercraft in just about any marine environment. Our headquarters and manufacturing operations are located in Cleveland, Ohio.

We have an additional facility and staff in Fort Lauderdale, Florida as well as boat lift dealers all over the world. Boat Lifts by JetDock. Navigation Menu. Knowledge Center Menu.

What do I need to yoir Boat Hoists and Boat Lifts What is the difference between a boat lift and a build your own boat hoist 2019 hoist? Create Your Own! Hoiist Now! How to Order. Talk to a knowledgeable JetDock representative today! Live Chat. Click chat now and you'll be connected to a representative! Find Your Build your own boat hoist 2019 Lift. Not sure which boat lift is right for you?

Use our online tool. Lifts By Location. Not sure if a Jet Dock will work in your location? Check out our capabilites! Knowledge Center. Knowledge is power!

Read all about JetDock and make an informed decision. Marine Forecast. Before you hit the water check the forcast in your area!

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His activism can be quirky and impulsive. This, pointedly, was how much money he would get back from President George W. Last year, during a chat with one of the national leaders of the Lutheran Church, Steves wondered how much it would cost to send every single Lutheran congregation in the United States a DVD of his recent TV special about Martin Luther. In the s, working in partnership with the Y.

The plan was to take that money out of the banking system and let it do a few decades of social good, at which point Steves could sell the buildings to fund his retirement. Eventually he worked his way up to buying a whole unit apartment complex � and then he donated it outright to the Y. The mothers, he said, needed it more than he would. Steves is obsessed with the problem of poverty and amazed at our perpetual misunderstanding of it.

This needs to be talked about. I can do it, and I can get away with it. I could retire now. Once the travel market finally recovered, some years after Sept. By taking a principled stand, Steves flourished. Today, his chipper voice is reaching more Americans than ever. One night, in his living room, Steves pulled out a plain black notebook.

This, however, was something else entirely � a record of a very different kind of journey. For the next 20 minutes, Steves would read me koans about the glories of being stoned. He would get baked, open up to somewhere in the middle and jot down whatever he happened to be thinking � deep or shallow, silly or angry.

There is no chronology; on every page, axioms from many different decades commingle. The entries covered an impressively wide territory. I found myself wondering, for the thousandth time: Who does this?

What kind of mind not only thinks of such a project but actually follows through with it, decade after decade after decade? As Steves read, he interrupted himself again and again with great shouting honks of laughter, and I cackled right along with him. Then, suddenly, with almost no transition, we would find ourselves deep in earnest conversation about the nature of true happiness or the dangers of ambition. And then we would suddenly be cackling again.

And of course there were many, many more descriptions of getting high itself. At some point, he looked up from the journal. Because this is me. He shook his head. An earlier version of this article misstated the size of a bus Steves used in his early tours through Europe.

It was a nine-seat minibus, not a nine-foot minibus. When my wife and I were married, my mother-in-law told us she had a special gift for us. In Sweden, on an island, in the forest. As with all magical places, getting to the island in Sweden requires some effort particularly as my wife, son and I live in Los Angeles.

After the plane, the train and a car ride to the countryside, a boat ferries us across the lake from the mainland. There are only a handful of cottages � with no electricity or running water � on the island. Distances walking in the forest are hard to determine. You spend so much time walking over, under and around branches, brush and fallen trees that a simple hike can quickly become a disorienting journey.

There are no straight lines in a forest. In Sweden, mushrooms are like gold. Specifically chanterelle mushrooms. Aside from their high cost and their subtle earthy flavor cooked in butter and served on toast , their value is enhanced by how late in the season they grow.

So Swedes are extremely protective of their chanterelle patches. The day my mother-in-law took us for our first walk, everything seemed slow and quiet besides the buzz of the mosquitoes. I listened to her tell stories of playing here as a child; exploring it made me feel young, and nostalgic for a past I had never lived.

I marched behind my wife and was careful when stepping over fallen trees or catching branches she bent back to allow me to pass. Some mushrooms you can eat, and some can make you very sick. Animals know this, and people who spend lots of time in the forest know this. My mother-in-law knows.

She took us to a clearing among some trees, looked around a bit, then stopped and bent down. She said she had given each of her children a patch in the forest where she found that mushrooms consistently grew each year. The whale sighting happened right away, minutes into Day 1.

Jon, Dave and I had just been dropped off on a remote Alaskan shoreline, an hour and a half by boat from the closest speck of a town. Jon was working as a sea-kayaking guide that summer in Glacier Bay National Park, and he had invited us up for a seven-day excursion during his week off. As the boat that delivered us vanished, the drone of its engine dampening into a murmur and then finally trailing off, it became unthinkably quiet on the beach, and the largeness and strangeness of our surroundings were suddenly apparent.

It was a familiar phenomenon for Jon from the start of all his trips: a moment that people instinctually paused to soak in. We were on earth � finally, really on earth. We were only starting to move around again, packing our gear into the kayaks, when we heard the first huff of a blowhole, not far offshore. Jon was ecstatic. It seemed to him as if the animal were putting on a show, swimming playfully in the kelp, diving, resurfacing, then plowing its open mouth across the surface to feed.

He took it as a good omen. Though I had no idea at the time, he was anxious that Dave and I might feel intimidated about making the trip; such a big payoff, so quickly, would get us excited and defuse any apprehensions. For Dave, the whale-sighting had exactly the opposite effect. Once, when he was a kid, his dad took him scuba diving with dolphins.

They were friendly, awe-inspiring creatures, purportedly, but they terrified Dave instead. He could still conjure the feeling of hanging defenselessly in that water while the animals deftly swirled around him, less like solid objects than flashes of reflected light, while he could move only in comparative slow-motion.

Ever since, he had harbored a fear of large sea creatures � a niche phobia, particularly for a young man who lived in the Bronx, but a genuine one still.

And so, even as Dave understood that a chance to see whales up close like this was a major draw of a kayaking trip in Alaska, and though he feigned being thrilled, some second thoughts were kicking in: We were going out there, he realized. The whale left me exhilarated and gleeful, like Jon; but deeper down, I also remember feeling shaken, like Dave.

Nothing about the animal registered to me as playful or welcoming. It just appeared in the distance, then transited quickly past us, from left to right. Watching it made me feel profoundly out of place and register how large that wilderness was, relative to me. At the time, I was working at a literary magazine in New York City called The Hudson Review, picking poems out of the slush pile and mailing them to an outside panel of editorial advisers.

I was trying hard in my letters to impress one of them: Hayden Carruth, a gruff and irreverent year-old poet who lived far upstate. Never then or now have I been able to look at a cloudless sky at night and see beauty there. A kind of grandeur, yes � but not beauty. The profusion and variety of celestial lights have always frightened me. Why are they there? Why these instead of others?

Why these instead of nothing? That was how I felt, watching the whale from the beach: afraid that everything was accidents. It was mid-August , and we were 23, 24 and We had graduated from college together two years earlier. Dave, whom I also grew up with, shot out of undergrad knowing he wanted to be a doctor and had just finished his first year of medical school.

Any similar momentum I had after graduation was instantly sapped. Three weeks after that, he died. My grief was disorienting and total; at a moment in life when everything is supposed to feel possible, making any single decision became impossible.

I gave into that sadness for the better part of a year, resettling at home in New Jersey with my widowed mother and sliding back to the summer job I worked during school, glumly breaking down beef at a butcher shop two towns over.

I read a lot of books about Ronald Reagan, for example, even the collection of his love letters to Nancy. He withdrew awkwardly after the funeral, and I suppose I was happy to hold that against him. It triggered some longstanding jealousy. A part of me always resented how he seemed unfairly exempt from the self-doubt and heaviness that I was prone to. Jon, meanwhile, was teaching at a rustic little boarding school in Switzerland, where his mother was from.

The summer after graduation, before starting the job, he set out for Alaska with a friend, sleeping in the bed of their old pickup. In the minuscule town of Gustavus, the gateway to Glacier Bay, he picked up seasonal work in the warehouse of a kayak-tour company.

Jon had little actual experience of sea kayaking but had always felt drawn to the ocean in the abstract. In college, he and another friend plotted out a paddling expedition near Glacier Bay, across the border in Canada and applied for a grant from our school to fund it. The grant was set up in memory of an alumnus who died in an avalanche while mountaineering.

They seemed insufficiently prepared. He was bright but scatterbrained, forever picking up things and putting them down, both figuratively music projects, conversations but also literally. I can still picture him hustling around the house we shared in college, hunting for his keys or his soldering iron, having gotten in over his head rewiring some device. He was an artist; one piece I remember consisted of a half-peeled banana, implanted with circuitry and suspended in a jar of formaldehyde.

Once, he grew grass in our upstairs bathroom � a living bathmat, he said � until the turf became muddy and flooded the downstairs. Jon had no serious concerns about our safety, but he felt he bore responsibility for our emotional well-being.

To enjoy ourselves, we would need to feel comfortable, not just in the wilderness but also with him as a leader. We knew him before he became a professional guide, and our perception of his expertise lagged behind the reality.

Do we have everything we need? Jon seemed to have solid answers for all of them. He was living alone for the summer in a house that an acquaintance was building in the woods.

The structure was framed-up but largely wall-less, and Jon, to be safe, needed to check that no moose had wandered in. After a spectacular first day of paddling, we came ashore on a rocky tidal flat about two miles from where we were dropped. Jon gave us his detailed tutorial about bear safety while we set up our campsite.

The last thing you wanted was to come across a brown bear unannounced. This was intentional. It was essential for their safety, but it felt silly or vulnerable somehow, like singing in public. It loosened everyone up. They were performing for their friends now; the whole group was in on the joke.

I had never seen a wild bear, though I have backpacked in bear country a handful of times. I felt comfortable with the animals in the abstract. There were bear trails everywhere, leading from the tree line to the water, and disquietingly close, I felt, to where we were pitching our tent.

We found heaps of their scat. We saw trees where the animals had slashed off the bark to eat the inner layer, tufts of fur from their paws still plastered in the sap.

I pretended I was having fun. But that evening I grew increasingly petrified, almost delirious. My eyes tightened, scanning for bears. The sound of the wind became bears, and so did the mossy sticks cracking under our feet. I gave myself a migraine, then phased in and out of sleep. At sunrise, I woke feeling foolish. While Jon cooked pancakes, I reasoned with myself, privately, in a notebook I brought on the trip.

I tried to conceive of the situation as a geometry problem. Yes, some number of bears roved this landscape, I wrote: relatively tiny, independent blips, going about their business randomly, just like us. In all that empty space and confusion, a lethal collision of their moving blips and our moving blips would be an improbable coincidence. It was embarrassing, really. I was reminding myself that freakishly horrible things are, by definition, unlikely to happen.

Even now, my reasoning feels sound. Day 2 was a slog. We paddled through a spitting drizzle in an endless straight line, along the high granite walls of the coast. We talked less and less, just pushed through the emerald chop. Then eventually we gave up, hauling in our boats and making camp in a wide, crescent-shaped cove, short of the site that Jon originally picked out on his map.

In the s, one prospector built a cabin not far from our campsite and brandished a gun at the Alaska Natives who passed through. We intuited that the scenery was beautiful, but we could see very little of it through the fog.

Soon, the big rain started. We rushed through dinner, then loafed in our tent until, eventually, the loafing turned to sleep. Gale winds, with gusts up to 59 miles per hour, turned back two cruise ships in Skagway, about 85 miles north.

Around 2 a. We heard torrents of water lashing down and the waves crashing in the cove. We got up three or four hours later. The rain and wind no longer felt ferocious but were still too gnarly to paddle through; there was no question, Jon said, that we were staying put. We cooked breakfast and took turns playing chess in the tent.

By late morning, the storm seemed to have passed. We were antsy. We figured we would take a look around. The terrain was crammed with thickets of alder and spruce, underlain by ferns and a furor of prickly things. The plant pierced fleece and hurt like fire. There were no trails. We followed it downstream, looking for a way across, and eventually found it bridged by a hefty tree trunk.

It seemed like an easy crossing. Jon stepped up and led the way, and Dave and I waited in a single-file line on the stream bank behind him. The creek was loud, like a factory with all its gears and rollers churning. But I must have scanned those trees long enough to feel satisfied and safe, because I know I was turning my head, to go back to my friends, when I saw the dark shape rushing forward in my peripheral vision.

What I heard must have been roots popping. If a tree is large enough, you can apparently hear them cracking underground like gunfire. The thud was seismic. The trunk crashed down right next to me. Mapping out bits of evidence later, we concluded that the tree must have been about 80 feet tall and perhaps two feet in diameter.

It was some kind of conifer � a spruce or cedar. When I got to him, he was crouching, stunned but O. The sight of Dave going down had canceled out everything else. It had narrowly missed his head, struck his left shoulder, shearing it from his collarbone and breaking many of his ribs.

Jon had heard nothing, seen nothing. He was turning around to help Dave onto the log � again, feeling responsible for our safety � and the next thing he knew, he was in the water. He tried to reach out his left arm but could not make it move. He could not move his legs.

He felt a bolt of pain down his spine. Jon later described flashing through an idiosyncratic sequence of thoughts, all in a few milliseconds, as if watching a deck of cards fanning across a table. One was an image of himself in a wheelchair, sitting behind a mixing console in a fancy recording studio. He had never worked in a recording studio and, though he played music, he had no particular plans to.

Still, this vision apparently felt like an acceptable future and freed him to resurface in the present. That was when he registered me, screaming his name.

He knew from his many wilderness first-responder trainings that moving a person with spinal injuries risks paralysis. He somehow hoisted himself out of the stream before Dave or I got to him, using his right arm and his chin and biting into something loamy with his teeth, for additional leverage.

He reassessed the situation: better. Also: worse. He now realized that we were at least a mile inland from our camp. Suddenly, his body was walking; his legs just started working. Dave and I put him between us, supporting his frame. He was moving faster than we expected, but uncoordinatedly. Then he crumpled between us.

We tried again; Jon was dead weight. Dave noticed that his breathing was shallow and his voice was low � signs, Dave knew from med school, of a collapsed lung. He began battering Jon with a pep talk, telling him, firmly, that he had to get up, that we had to get out of here.

He looked down to see why this log he was resting on was so lumpy and realized that he was, in fact, sitting on his left arm. Jon had zero feeling in it.

He found it amusing, this sensation of complete estrangement from one of his limbs. Jon had been stressing that it was important to stay together. But this was another theory of wilderness survival that appeared to be breaking down in practice. Someone would have to get on the radio back at our camp. By chance, while marooned in our tent during the rainstorm the night before, Jon showed us how to use the device, though he did it almost as a formality; the hand-held VHF unit was merely a line-of-sight radio, he told us, meaning its range was small, its signal too weak to pass through most obstacles.

There was a moment of discussion, or maybe just an exchange of looks between me and Dave. I told Dave he should go. Besides, I took for granted that Dave would make it. He was more capable in my mind, less likely to cinch himself in indecisive knots. I know that you, growing up, definitely felt insecure about things, and I think you looked at me and thought, Dave has everything figured out.

But I had so much anxiety. But I guess I thought of the tremor as strictly physiological. What if he broke the radio, foreclosing whatever marginal chance we had of getting help? There were lots of ways to screw this up, Dave realized. More occurred to him as he ran. He found the radio. He turned it on. He was lying near a log on his injured side, his beard and glasses flecked with dirt and tendrils of moss.

He seemed to be on the brink of losing consciousness. Still, I knew I was supposed to keep talking to him, to tether him to the world with my voice somehow. I started vamping platitudes: We were going to get out of here soon, and so forth.

But I could feel myself treading water, even blundering, at one point, into a long-winded apology, worried I overstayed my welcome that one Christmas with his family. I was afraid that the helplessness in my voice might be counterproductive, unsettling Jon instead of steadying him. It was a tremendous silence to fill.

What can a person say? I had two literature professors in college who made us memorize poems. You never knew when some lines of verse would come in handy, they claimed. One liked to brag that, while traveling through Ireland, he found that if he spat out some Yeats at a pub, he could drink free.

This is how I wound up reciting a love poem to Jon. After that, I imagine I also did some W. Auden; I knew a fair amount of Auden back then. Jon and I would spend about an hour and a half together alone on the forest floor. I ran through everything in my quiver � Kay Ryan, A. Ammons, Michael Donaghy � padding each poem with little prefatory remarks, while Jon said nothing, just signaled with his eyes or produced a sound whenever I checked in.

I felt like a radio D. I must have also done at least one by Hayden Carruth, my curmudgeonly pen pal at the literary magazine. Hayden and the animal pass a moment in stillness together. The foot patrol boat normally spent its time coursing through the Gulf of Alaska, inspecting halibut-fishing vessels, or circulating, as a terrorist deterrent, near the oil terminals at Valdez.

It was home-ported in Seward, hundreds of miles from Glacier Bay. But the crew was transiting to Juneau for a training when, a few days earlier, they were smacked by the same storm that later poured inland, over us. For two days, the boat swished around in foot-plus seas.

Finally, the Mustang slipped into Glacier Bay to find some protection. The weather started to ease. That afternoon, as Roberts piloted the Mustang east, toward Dundas Bay, his pallid crewmates were finally staggering back up to the bridge, asking where the hell they were. Our signal would have covered two or three miles at most.

And yet, a boat � a Coast Guard boat, no less � happened to be passing through that exceedingly small window at precisely the right time. A moment earlier or later � seconds, potentially � and we might have slipped out of alignment.

The moving boat would have cruised out of range, uncoupling from us forever. It was p. Then he turned and asked his watch commander to pull out all the standardized search-and-rescue paperwork. He was steeling himself, resummoning his professionalism. Roberts was the crew member on the Mustang with the most current medical training; he would complete his E. We were nautical miles from the nearest hospital; a half-day trip, even in ideal conditions.

He was still in front of our campsite, facing the water. He aimed straight up, then watched as the bright tracer rose and arced somewhere far behind him, deep in the woods. He was uncertain whether this counted as a success.

He started scanning the fog in front of him, but the Zodiac never appeared. I generally use a Senco screwgun for anything major and I believe they do have the torx head drivers for those as well, but phillips seem to work pretty well have to change the bit every couple hundred screws. A box of Phillips Square drive screws cost the same as the regular Phillips screws and comes with the special driver bit required.

These are just as good if not better than torx screws in my opinion and the free driver bit with the box of screws means not having to keep extra bits on hand.

Brady, good tip. They tend to work exceptionally well in auto feed screw guns as well. Great post! I like the way you took it step by step in the post.

I wont do much else than go for a swim in that kind of heat. Having sufficient shelving in a shed is very important. They are the first things that go in the shed after its standing��. Having adequate shelving, wall hooks and rafter hangers are the key in my mind. Thanks for the read��.. That looks great!! Thanks for posting this.

We have a small shed similar to the one you worked on. The shelves we added really do not make optimum use of the space. Hopefully, we get use your ideas to improve the storage potential. For us about 1 full day for two people working together. This is another article I keep coming back to� What do you recommend doing when I am trying to build free-standing shelves in the basement� Should I fasten supports or the whole structure to the concrete or simply bolster the strength of the shelves 3 rows high?

I just got a new shed and love these shelves. Before I start, I was wondering if I could make the shelf bases using 2 x 3 instead of 2 x 4? I do not plan to excessively load up the shelves with weight. I am in the process of painting my shed so shelves are next, thanks. Your shelf tutorial Fred will come in handy for all the smaller lawn care stuff. Thanks again for providing a very well documented project plan.

I completed my shed shelving project this weekend. The only variation I made to your plan was adding 2 heavy-duty angle bracket supports on the first and second shelves requiring 2 extra wall studs. My shed could definitely use some shelves like these. Thanks for sharing! I hope it is when I do it my own. Good luck to me! Fred�Thanks for putting this up.

Well documented! We probably should put up some type of message to clarify where the site stands today. Ethan briefly put up a message back in July explaining that he was leaving full time work with OPC to pursue another job. He has since landed that new job and has been working there for more than a month. Right now, the part of our site that is still active is The Better Half you can find the links at the top.

Jocie continues to maintain TBH, while Kim still keeps our coupons and deals articles as up-to-date as possible. Blogging has become tough business over the past few years. So we collectively decided it was time for him to pursue new interests so he could make sure his family is taken care of!

OPC is still a great site! Great use of space, thanks Fred. It appears I will have to build a free standing wooden frame to attach shelving to. Your suggestions would be appreciated. I just found this on google. I followed the directions to the letter and it came out great.

Thankyou for sharing. Looks great. This is perfect for me. Once it warms up here Central MA , I am starting in on re-designing my shed interior and this give me some great ideas!!!

What would be the main reason to use screws over nails. I have a nail gun which makes framing the shelves 10 times faster. I just love the work that was done on the shelving.

Will definitely be using your plans, Thanks! Thank you. Great information! PJ Wheeler-island resident from birth until , when I got disgusted with the overcrowding, as well as with the plastic people who need to say they live in Newport just because they have no self esteem and guys who have small penises, too! I guess I don't need to mention the Hummer drivers with size 8 shoes.

Now when you click on the postcard images they are small and in one corner. Hard to see them. What happened? Can it be fixed to show them larger? The Banana Stand photo is blank. Thanks Jim. It's a great place to get away to when your feelin' down, I do it often just to see what's up with the weather and to leave a few words, memories and whatever. Please leave some memories. It always makes me feel happy to see it when I can't be there in person.

Thank You!!!!!!!! From Arizona!!!!!!! Anonymous Thanks to all for getting the Boardwalk cam up again, missed it, and for keeping the Ferry cam running. Much more interesting than this view.

Shannon had enormous respect for my father and I have the sad news of informing Shannon about the death of Harry Tunstall. Can you please send her the following link for his obituary? I would collect empty bottles and cash for deposit at the market on the north side of Balboa Blvd. If I was lucky to have enough, I'd bike up to Newport and pick up some smoked Albacore.

In off season - there was the fog and haze and few beach visitor; it was even better deserted. I will never forget Balboa Peninsula. When it got better, we moved back to Anaheim; but Balboa Peninsula was the best. Jon Steelman jonasteelman gmail. Bob said he managed the Rendezvous and Greg Zombie Nicholson always told me he was a bouncer or doorman or something to that effect.

Thanks for all the wonderful stories you posted. I notice a lot of folks asking for personal memories, so here's my two cents: -the Mayflower house at the corner of Park and Coral on Balboa Island The gum trees are still there. Late 60s? And the old wooden gates to close off the end. The guys on duty had to walk down to our house, as the truck was getting new brakes!

And Bingo! Out I came, right then and there! Remember Ozzie? RIP Chris Meyers. I will love you forever, dear boy. Will you remember you and I as well? So young an sweet The beginning of the crap being built all over the Island now. Munching mushrooms straight from the cow patties before surfing. Hey, what was, in the sixties? Sadly, I would never want to go back.

I know, honey, let's reproduce Anonymous Just wondering if anyone remembers a little bar, called The Galley, that used to be on Balboa Blvd. Also a place called Wheeler's Trading Post. There used to be a fellow that sold audio stuff there named John P. He called himself "Murf The Surf". Any memories would be very interesting. Greg Berry Greg Berry records rocketmail.

But now I can only look at the ferry ride and that's no fun at all its just not kind to know the cams are down. Austin austinhill gmail.

C, Marshall endoline99 yahoo. It seems that the wedge breaker itself has disappeared except very rarely. I remember hitting the surf there without studying the forecast and I was always witness to this wedge after which the location was named. Back in the thirties it was known, even then, as 'The Hook'. I have noticed, in at least two locations at the base of the jetty where the surf meets the rocks, that possibly a few boulders are breaking the straight edge of that base and causing the waves to form differently.

Is this a fairly recent development or am I imagining this? I'm going to be studying old video and still images to compare them with what I see now. Has anyone else noticed this? I hardly recognized you without your beard. You look at least 10 years younger. I keep hoping someone will remember me from the last time I lived in Balboa and send me a message, but at age 76 I suppose most of my friends have died off by now.

Maybe they would remember my husband Bud Wilson better than my name. Would love to hear from anyone that knew us then. Gail Wilson 09gwilson comcast. I don't want to lose any of these memories. The histories of people's lives and mine in Balboa are so charming to read and remember. I'm so afraid that as time and technology marches on these personal stories will disappear.

Please consider saving them in a published form. Only a real book will survive. Gail Stringer Brooks Wilson 09gwilson comcast. I lived on the island in the late 50's early 60's and remember a large black sailing schooner moored down by the Lido area. Was there for years. Does anyone else remember the ship and have any information about her? What the story on the boat owner, how long it was moored there and what happened to it.

Much appreciated. Rafferty MrRick45 aol. It has a curative effect which can not be explained to anyone. I suppose everyone has a place on the face of the earth that strikes him like The Balboa Peninsula impacts me, but my Balboa is special in all the world.

Treatment for nostalgia is so soothing, I'm gifted to have it. Thinking about just renting instead of using our own equipment. Going to have to check on the fishing requirements in the back bay. Anyone have an answer on that.

Maybe we'll rent an electric boat for the day or some other more relaxing form of getting around. One way or the other, we're gonna have a great time. Your info posted below definitely helps!

You nailed the apartment complex that I was looking for dead on. I have checked all the old environmental websites for "leaking former gas tanks" etc. I had ruled out the location even though it looked feasible from Google earth views because I did not know a gas station used to be there.

Also, I was searching through the Newport Beach City website where you can read old building permit applications and I confirmed your info. Feels like a LBS bag has been taken off my back to finally figure out where it was! There is something magical about Balboa Peninsula every time I go There, hard to explain! Actually, I want to move there this spring when my Huntington Beach lease is up, but I'm not sure how I'm going to find a reasonably priced apartment that actually has parking.

Also, its been pretty cold this winter so its gunna be tough convincing my wife to move there. I wish I knew someone that owned an apartment complex there. At 50 years old, I figure if I don't move there now, I never will. Johnson superfort2 netzero. If one wants the truth he must go to the source. I, for one, would love to hear more about the house and your history on the peninsula; there's no time like the present and where better to drop your pearls for posterity.

With Great Respect, Walter Quigley quigleyontop gmail. King of Surf Guitar. All of us are wishing you well and we would love to hear your story. We all love you! Diligence on the Gillette House, thank you kindly. Newport Beach has a mythology all its own.

The town's capacity for myth-making is nearly as predictable as the tides that bathe it. And nearly as changeable. A fine example was encapsuled in a Times article April 10 about an architectural monument at the tip of the Balboa peninsula known as the "King Gillette Mansion. Gillette, the son, not the inventor of the safety razor, who bought the site and built the home in not '26 , after Newport contractor Paul B.

Among Balboa's best-nurtured tales is that Gillette never spent a night in the place. In a feature story last year, Beatrix Padway, whose father-in-law once owned the place, opined, "Gillette never moved in because his wife fell in love with the architect and they ran off.

If so, he missed the better part of eight years' construction, which included two more stories, a whole second half and 14 additional rooms. Following these post-wave improvements, Gillette sold the property in to R. Next comes the cherished "feuding Padway brothers and house divided" story.

It likewise falls. It was Barney not Martin and James Padway who immediately remodeled the three-story spread into two Mediterranean houses. Far from any "brotherly feud," Padway occupied one half, while the other half was designed for his brother, Judge Joseph A Padway, of Milwaukee, Wis.

When completed, each half contained 15 rooms. Ultimately the Padways would occupy the landmark until World War II, when it was taken over by the military. Alas, it was the Army not the Coast Guard who commandeered the mansion for a base from which two foot crash boats were dispatched to retrieve downed fliers at sea. After sprucing it up, the Baileys sold in to Dr.

As is well known, the purchaser was aging guitar-twanger Richard Anthony Monsour also known as Dick Dale , "King of the surfing fender-benders. In , Dale was evicted after defaulting on his mortgage they say though sex makes better reading. Then in considerable disrepair, the place passed to the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp.

I trust that these facts will not confuse the harbor cruise directors, whose "ferry" tales have been such a fecund source of local history--especially those regarding the "King Gillette House. But the title under the shot says live.

Which is correct? PJ Wheeler Island resident from birth in '62 until ' Anonymous I'm approaching 70 years old now and visited back at Christmas time with family at Corona del Mar. There is one rock about one third of the way outthat is very unstable and should be tended to by some city people as someone my loose his balance out there. There is a rock like that on the West Jetty by The Wedge also about half way out.

I love that hike out to the ends of both jetties. I'll be doing it every year 'til the end of time. Ricki Jim, glad to see that you are still on the job. You got the ferry cam back. Isn't there some business that would support the camera? I miss seeing the area each day. Anonymous To all of my friends. The balboa Island Ferry cam is down for repair. I can't locate the problem, but I'm working on it.

Please bear with me while I work on this problem. As a kid in the 50's used to eat at the "Jolly Roger" and play in the water all day, I was first one in and last one out! My sister and I used to swim across to the "boat house" once in a while, don't think my parents knew!

One time I remember a BIG boat couldn't see us and we went under it, I remember seeing the boat go over us, must have been 60 feet long, wonder how long it really was, maybe feet, but I was young and it looked like an ocean liner!! Great memories of Balboa, Huntington Beach, thousand steps!

Dave Neil dneil44 att. Walter Walter Quigley quigleyontop gmail. It would be a great book for you to make available to those who take your walking tour. You may be able to get the right price from the publisher by wholesale Walter Quigley quigleyontop gmail.

Hotels on the peninsula would love to hear that. I'm sure that other businesses would push it for you as well. Just stayed with family on Corona del Mar last week and thoroughly enjoyed it. While there I read the paperback on the history of Corona del Mar.

My God, I never new. What a dramatic beginning. Have you read it. Many stories about ship wrecks all over here.

Has anyone written a really good history of the Balboa Peninsula. That would sell to every walking tour. Put lots of old photos in that book too. You'll do just fine with your tours, bet on it. I'm going to miss this site. Shoot me a line Jim. Jim, think about the potential with the chamber. Then it dawned on me - how am I going to see the Boat Parade? How am I going to watch all those cute Jr. Lifeguards coming and going on the ferry in the summer?

How am I going to watch my daughter riding on the ferry? How am I going to check out the weather? I know there are many more things I see on your site - thanks for all your time and work. Ricki Oh no I wish the cams could go on and on. I was sorry when you moved from near the arcade as I liked those cams, but this is so sad.

Thanks for all your time and effort - it has been much appreciated. Ricki We Love Your Site! Can you add us to your website. Also, my neighbor throw out large print that was signed by Artist, we can't make out the signature.

Three Wins Playland Arcade. Scene of Balboa Island and Ferris Wheel We can't make out signature? Hope you can help : Sincerely and with Gratitude Regina Mcgrath dmcgrathjr aol.

I'm sorry to tell you that Balboa Gallery has gone out of business. Because of this, the two live cams showing the Fun Zone and Bay Front will be shut down in a few days. The only camera remaining in use at this time will be the Ferry cam. The last few weeks have been a real mess for me due to closing the gallery and I may have missed some of your messages. For this I'm sorry. I look forword to the coming year with high hopes for Balboa.

I'm now looking into the possability of giving walking tours of downtown Balboa. Let me know what you think. Thanks for all of your support, and your wonderfull messages. And most of my friends worked nearby at mr fun foods, the boat rentals, the ferry and so on.. And then maybe get into a little trouble, lol I wouldn't change a thing!!! Thanks for the memories. Take Care Stephanie bymyside gmail. I worked there and met my wife who worked at the Bakery.

Dave www. My mother used to date the manager she could only remember his first name was Art and she got pregnant. He doesn't know he has a daughter my sister and he may want to know. If anybody knows anything that could help in finding Art, it would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you! Anna Selvaggi Anna. Ray Therehantahir gmail. Maui Joe Yes I do. Fished off her a couple of times. Roy Christensen royhilda1 gmail.

As a photographer myself I can appreciate your great works. I will stop in when I get over there in late November or so. Now that part of the family has taken residence at Corona del Mar I will be closer to Balboa, a very special place and a special place in my heart.

I don't know how to come close to describing my connection to this tiny community as it seems to escape me, but that is aside from your beautiful photographs. Thanks Jim, Walter Quigley quigleyontop gmail. When was this, where, and who paid for this expense? Would appreciate How To Build Your Own Boat Trailer 2019 hearing the story. Thank you. It was always very cold in there, as I remember! C Garner And expensive but they had great selections Roy Christensen Does anyone remember the Water Witch which was fishing boat ran out of the pavilion in the late 40's?

Maui Joe Joe39cubs gmail. It was next to an apartment complex that had very limited parking. There was also a Unocal station on the corner of Newport Blvd and 30th street.

There was one other station on the Peninsula around Newport Blvd and 34th street I believe it was an Exxon Station, these are the only ones I remember. Hope this helps. Steve nitro. I live in Huntington B. She returned to Japan.

I wanted to find her old apartment address but I cannot remember for my life. All I found was here name and her old phone number in my records, but no address. I do remember that there was a 6 car parking lot for her apartment which was usually full and I used to park behind a service station in its own parking lot , which was directly adjacent to her parking lot.

Can anyone help? Alfred superfort2 netzero. C Garner cgar. It was owned by O. The Coffee Shop was the hangout for many locals including John Wayne. I have been wracking my brain! Karen kbluel cox. Let's take the ferry to the Island! Walt Walter Quigley quigleyontop gmail. On July 2, late afternoon, the day began so well on a once in a lifetime vacation with my Favorite Person Ever.

Balboa was so beautiful though after the following events, nothing is. Late in the afternoon we arrived at Balboa. Riding a tandem bicycle had been a dream for more than a year so we rented one. I had no idea that as a man on a roadbike pulling into our lane with nowhere to go, She was still injured, but the injury is deeper than imaginable.

Unable to see the accident given time and position, she has lost trust in me. I implore the help of the man on that bike to help me restore the trust of The One Person i hope for the most, J jasonfricx comcast. He had to quit soon after because he was losing his battle with bone cancer.

We were so grateful you hired him in spite of his health issues; he so wanted to live a normal life and you gave him an extra boost Nancy Allin Baldwin nanabal att. I was there I I met a beautiful waitress named Marion have tried for decades to find her would you have any other stories about that place or anyone who might know her.

Tom Low tommy51 charter. They subsequently got divorced and Ethel died about 10 years ago. All of her six siblings are also deceased and no one on our side of the family knows what ever happened with The Doll House at Balboa. Does anyone out there have any recollection of the history of this establishment?

Video evidence of their deed can be seen readily with a simple search on line and it's all narrated. Just received word from his wife and manager Lana. Video of him surfing is on line here and there with simple searches. That was back in the late 50's and early 60's.

Wish we could hold on to our past, but that's the way it goes many times. So much of it is still here in Balboa, particularly the sea shore which we all enjoy so much. I'll bet that little cafeteria was a cozy little place, was it in an old house? Drop a line again. Walter Quigley quiglyontop gmail. Dark brown shingle siding. Anyone know the name of it or anything about it? Linda kaloskie astound. June Christy opened the show with "I Cover the Waterfront.

Stan would announce a break by saying, "It's Blue Room time," and the band would go across the street to this bar named The Blue Room. Fabulous memories of these days. Also spent every spring break at Bal from Whittier High School, class of ' Cathie Moon Brown cabrown yahoo. Rick S.

Rick was quite a picture at The Wedge that day. It was just before he joined the U. Drop a line Rick. Guess someone got the surf report and we headed down from City of Orange. Nice big breakers and nicely formed wedge. We were all new to California and loving it. We were going to Orange High.

Scott and Rick graduated in '64 and Mike and I graduated in ' We hit the surf that day and it tested me to the max. I'm sure the others felt the same way, but nobody wanted to say quits first. I recall cutting back one time when the whole ocean floor sand was showing under me.

I was in a standing position when the wave broke and dumped me flat standing. I was having fun. I think it was Mike who quit first with a bloody chest or nose, I don't recall. Rick also was somewhat damaged in the same way,but he kept on. Scott and I made it out fair. We will never forget that day Walter Quigley quigleyontop gmail. Duncan Stewart probably carved the doors. Not just a poet!

Balboa and the Coast Hwy. It was there in '' What a great place for a couple of beach bum buddies to get a fast meal then hit the surf. Rick reminded me of the time that Stewart drove his yellow '58 Chevy off of the parking lot accidentally and ending up door handle deep in the beach sand. I think it was near Balboa Pier. He also reminded me that we were a curious group as he could not remember us ever drinking alcohol.

I think he is right, for the most part we were pretty sensible. I'll never forget the night that Stewart asked us all to chip in for gas to go to the beach then he took us all home and went out on a date.

Gees we were stupid. That's ok, Rick reminded me of the time Stewart pretended to have forgotten his wallet while eating at Oscars. We all slyly left the table for one reason and another until Stewart was left at the table to pay his own bill as it should be.

We all stood outside looking in at him. More to come. We spent many of those nights at the fun zone playing arcade games, laughing, eating junk food and having fun. It was the most carefree fun time of my life and it was there that we fell in love. Tragically she died a few months later but, when I go back, it's as if she's with me holding, my hand and telling me she loves me. Cameron P. The very first timeI went to Balboa was in August of Visited that little beach next to a small pier on the harbor on 15th St.

The Landry family from Anaheim were relatives who took us in for a while til our family got settled into Orange, they were relatives and we were very thankful for their help. It was the Landreys who took us to that beach. My cousin Rose was gracious enough to take me across Balboa Blvd. I sure did like Rose a lot, same age and all. Rose, drop a line here please. Yeah, my buddies and I spent a lot of time at the Wedge. This Tales Of Balboa brings back a lot of memories, thanks Jim for the effort you put into this site.

Some of my most fond memories. Practically lived on the beach from morning til night. Then on the Ferry to the Arcade for more fun. Used to shop in a little grocery store that was on same street as the Ferry if I remember right. Great times and great memories. Lonnie agramie yahoo. My parents have left me a huge painting titled " A Day in Town".

Seashore N. I am hoping to communicate with the man who was bleeding from his left forearm. She said the used to take babyoil and iodine and mix them together If they weren't visiting her Aunt in Santa Monica, they were at Balboa.

I feel roots to this place because of this. Never a better place David Michael Alonzo doznola yahoo. Kenny, call Scott, he's livin' on The Peninsula accross from the tennis courts.

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