My father was a seaman upon the mighty lakes
No mariner on oceans, he just sailed for fishing’s sake
He’d drop his anchor, cast his line and tally what he caught
Then cruise that Red Ram Engine back to dock


He was a humble carpenter; built every boat he sailed
Sawed every board and hammered every rove and copper nail
From Seafleas up to cruisers and each bore a daughter’s name
Those glory-days in photos still remain.

Chorus:

He was a man of chosen words and mischief in his eye. He’d
be-friend the poorest stranger and he’d never question why
He wasn’t blessed with wealth; he was content with what he had
I learned the better parts of me from watching Dad


The last boat was my namesake; the one I knew so well
If she could talk her bow would blush at stories she would tell
Of yearly trips on up the Trent, her stern hung low with beer
And Walleye fishing off of Meyer’s Pier


One night while moored up to the dock, she burned down to her deck
A butt discarded by a Friday drunk without regret
But Dad restored her, bow to stern, and we could cruise again and feel
Lake Erie’s misty breeze upon our skin

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