My dad used to keep his rowboat in a shed with a heavy lock on the door. The paint on the shed was sun-blasted in a way that only seaside sheds can be. As I remember it, the door was blue; the lock was Chubb. I genuinely remember the lock as being all bulgy – don’t know if it was the name or its generally intimidating heft.
Dad was an economical boat owner. We never had an anchor; he would rope together half a dozen house bricks and heave them over the side when we wanted to stop in one spot. As I remember it, he didn’t bother to haul them up when we moved on, just cut the rope and off we went. There must be some strange artificial reefs in the Port Hacking River all these years later.