Mark Jones, the boat whisperer.

I am a bass fisherman. As such it is vital that I have a proper bass boat to fish from. Mine is a Ranger of dubious provenance. It’s a 1600-V and it couldn’t be less like a tournament fishing boat the Ranger folk are known for if they’d set out to baffle us all on purpose. But I don’t think the good ‘ol boys from Flippin, Arkansas are dumb. More likely they saw those guys up in Minnesota in their walleye sleds - overpowered 16 - 18 ft aluminum skiffs that cost next to nothing but could take on Lake Superior or Lake of the Woods, get them to the walleyes and get them home alive. They figured rightly that some of us may want a little comfort in the deal. I don’t think they were wrong about that but mine is the only 1600-V I’ve ever seen. It’s a darned good boat. For one thing it’s stable. Four people can stand on one side of it and it will barely lean. It handles in a way that makes others think I am good at handling a boat. I am reasonably adept, but having a responsive boat helps a lot. This one will turn 180 degrees inside its own length. Turns on a dime and gives you nine cents change. I love pulling up to the gas dock at Stoney Point Marina on a busy afternoon and slipping into an impossibly tight spot, coming to rest without touching the dock. When Mark revamped this vessel and left it there for my pickup there were several inquiries about whether it was for sale. By the time Mark Jones came along it was probably time to get another boat. Mine was caught up in the sad departure of Bob Knox (tell you more about that another time) and had suffered for it. The engine needed a rebuild, the carpeted deck that signals a quality bass boat was a mossy slime. In short it looked awful. And were it not fitted out with an electric trolling motor we would not have got home every now and then. The engine would heat up, overheat and then there was no choice but to shut it down, sit on my knees and inch my way home, hoping the trolling motor battery would get us all the way there. The only thing worse than this was if you had to swim home towing the boat with a rope in your teeth. There’s a lot of technical stuff I might share with you but the point is Mark took the boat in hand and rebuilt the engine. I have to use 50: 1 gas now instead of the regular stuff, but the engine runs. When closing up time came the obvious choice was to hand the boat to Mark and turn him loose. Never mind my excellent idea about the teak wood deck, I had to let go of my vanities. And Mark came through. My Ranger 1600-V never looked better. This is no ordinary boat. I won’t name names here because the ad I answered was placed by a pro fisherman who, with some partners, I presume, thought they could produce a Canadian version of a Ranger, the Mercedes Benz of Bass Boats. This was just prior to the free trade agreement and it made a certain economic sense, legal or not. They’d bought this hull from Ranger and once it arrived in Canada they set upon it to learn all its secrets. Why they chose this model escapes me, but what do I know? They tore it apart, made molds and measurements and readied themselves to market a product of high quality that was on the right side of the border from a tax perspective. Then they put it all back together. The guy I met who was selling the boat now had a problem. He was a pro fisherman and a good one. This was to be his own boat all set up to help him compete. How could he be seen winning tournaments from a Ranger when he was the poster kid for brand X? That’s why we met through a local newspaper ad. I liked the boat immediately, bought it on the spot. But I couldn’t see myself with a 40 hp tiller steer of this size. No problem, he customized the craft to suit my needs and not long after there was a great day on the lake, the day my sleek gold candy-coloured metal-flake streamlined baby was delivered. I never worried for a minute that this boat had been thoroughly dismantled nor did I wonder if it had been meticulously reassembled. I was in raptures. I had my own custom bass boat, a Ranger. In place of the tiller steer set up I’d had them install an up front console with a steering wheel, and I’m glad of that. I run the boat from its perfect balance point. But it’s not immune to getting old. It lives outdoors tethered to a dock; the winds, waves and sun have worked their wear on it all summer long. Over the years it had lost its looks. The glossy metal flake finish is now a dull chalky beige. There are dock tattoos on it’s flanks. But in the hands of Mark it’s young again. New carpet, new floor, revamped electronics, even a new seat with a strong back. Mark even preserved the vintage Ranger seat cover. As I said, as a mechanic he’s a magician. He used to run the service department at a local high-end marine dealer as head mechanic. These days he keeps super-busy from ice-out to first freeze keeping the boats and water pumps of Lake Kasshabog in repair. In the winter he hibernates. Mark picked up where Bob Knox left off. Poor Bob Knox was gone to glory, Mike Laurie quite kindly brought my boat back to the marina, and as decrepit as it had been it didn’t seem any worse for having spent winter under a snow drift. But engines need oil to run and if oil isn’t getting where its supposed to go the engine has a gizmo that’s supposed to go “BEEEP!”. If the thing that goes BEEEP! is broken because it wintered in a snow bank I don’t know I have a problem until another gizmo goes “HOONNNK!!!!!” HOONNNK!!!!! is engine talk for “You idiot! Shut the motor off it’s overheated!” At least that device worked. One of the things I learned from the first HOONNNKK is the engine will run from the island to the marina where I get the newspaper every morning and part of the way back. Or about fifteen minutes total before I had to shut it down and spend the next 45 minutes on my knees in the bow working the trolling motor. I also learned that misery is operating a stiff old trolling motor with your hands. Ordinarily there’s a seat up front so I could use my foot but there was no reason to put it in the boat just to get the paper, right? Back at the dock I called the marina and got Mark’s number. I left him a message. For the sake of his sanity Mark does not always answer his phone during working hours, which are 8AM to sunset seven days a week. Later that afternoon I heard someone clunking around down at the dock and went to investigate. A stocky pleasantly youthful looking guy with unruly hair wearing a filthy T shirt and a grin like a 53 Buick looked up and waved. As I approached I heard the old Johnson 40 purring away. “She started right up, sounds good, thought you might have a dead water pump but it’s fine.” He shut off the engine and grinned some more with a “What-are-you-gonna-do?” air about him. He’s learned to be fatalistic about engines. Can anyone tell me why engines always behave when a mechanic’s around? We’ve all been there. I offered Mark a beer, which he declined because he was working, but we sat on the dock for a long time chatting. Mark loves to talk, and I love to listen so we get along fine. Finally it was time for him to fire up his floating mechanics shop and head off to the next cottager in distress, leaving me to stare down at the motor dozing there in sullen silence. The next morning we motored off to get the paper and got “HOOONNKK”ed at again. I’m a slow learner so the fishing seat was back in the boat house, and I was back on my knees. Later that day the motor purred like a docile cat when Mark came by. After another nice chat he was off again. By now it was obvious that the boat had about a ten-fifteen minute range and as we had a series of weekend guests scheduled we just worked within that parameter. Eventually I was able to turn the boat over to Mark so he could pull the engine apart and give me the bad news. As I suspected, three or four months under a snow bank was not good for several parts, including a plastic oil pump, which Mark said always was a weak point in that engine model. Simply put the engine needed a complete rebuild, the pump was no longer available so we turned to using mixed gas, and after waiting several weeks for Johnson to supply a three dollar gasket he was able to get her running just fine. You can see from the parts problem that they don’t like to make it easy to repair old outboards, they would much prefer we spend another $8000 or more on a new one. But Mark is made of stronger stuff and he waited them out. And we did fine without long boat rides for most of that summer. Before you race to your phones, this is just a story about Mark, not an endorsement, in fact it's a betrayal of sorts because I have specific instructions not to send Mark any more work. He says he’s overworked as it is. So if anyone asks, no, you can’t have his secret cell phone number. Sorry, guys.