Scuttlebutt had upwards of 50 vintage boats at the show, but no more than 20 were evident at the Konocti marina Saturday or Sunday. Regardless, the show was a success, with plenty of gawkers, aficionados, loungers and hangers-on. Many of the boaters were returnees, but there are always a few new hulls in the slips. 
This year there were a pair of Rivas, beautiful craft fashioned in Italy. Sierra Boats, of Lake Tahoe, is importing them to order.
Saturday at the Konocti This reporter was hanging out at the Konocti, gathering wool, for the most part, Saturday afternoon, watching the boats return from an outing. For the uninitiated, a bit of background might be helpful. Clear Lake is a huge natural formation nestled deep in Lake County. The shoreline extends for over 100 miles, there are islands, harbors, an extinct volcano and gorgeous sunsets. There are little developments in various places, each with a marina of some sort.
As could be expected, there are boats, and what kind of boat one has helps define an individual in the eyes of regular visitors. This reporter is fortunate to travel in high style in a 1960 Sanger flatbottom speedboat.
Sinces this is a totally unique boat, it attracts quite a bit of attention.
A typical Saturday afternoon is spent a couple a places: on the water, basking in the heat and diving off the boat; at the Konocti looking at watercraft and the visiting faunae, Americanus Touristus, a breed of various size, plumage and inebriation which often repays close observation with water-related antics; or Richardson Park, where one can observe local faunae, Americanus Unpredictabilus subspecies Lake County.
This Saturday, the Sanger spent time at both the Konocti and Richardson Park. The Konocti marina was reserved for the woodies, which were off on parade when the Sanger idled in. One of the greatest amusements for Crew Sanger is fielding questions about the boat. Since powerboaters are by definition motor-heads to a certain extent, and since the V-8 motor sticks halfway out the back of the boat, gawkers almost always ask what kind of motor is installed.
Cap'n Brian has perfected the art of making grown men grovel for clues when they can't guess the maker of the engine. It's a well-known auto manufacture of recent memory, but not usually associated with marine motors. In any case, Crew Sanger gets constant amusement from watching people squirm as they find that they can't name an American V-8. After loafing around for an hour or two torturing passersby with the engine-guessing game, the woodies started to return, so, in anticipation of being kicked out, the Sanger and crew headed for Richardson Park.
Richardson Park, also known as the "dive bar," is a rickety waterside combination pool hall, taproom and marina, attracting all the unsavory adherents of those international institutions. Saturday afternoon is a lazy time on Clear Lake. Families are on the water, partiers are napping off the early beer in anticipation of the evenings festivities. Crew Sanger stopped by RP for a burger about 2:30 p.m.
The meal started quietly enough. The young, blond, tough-looking cook took our orders and turned to her grill. Crew Sanger sat down on the deck looked around. There was one other party in evidence, a group of seven or eight at one of the tables who had apparently been there for some time. Voices were a little loud, laughter alcoholically boisterous, but not annoyingly so. A retarded man, maybe 30, about 200 lbs, was wandering around with a long loop of drool hanging from his lower lip.
Maggie, former manager of Park Richardson and an acquaintance of the crew, stopped by. Maggie is a dyed-in-the-wool Clear Laker, having probably spent more time on either side of a bar 
than anyone else known at Clear Lake. Maggie delivered a brief lecture, punctuated by swear words, on the decline of RP following her departure. The cook stopped by to show us her new tattoo, a colorful design on her coccyx, which cost her $100.
At this point the situation began to grow surreal and it started with a dog. As this reporter went to fetch his hamburger a mangy mutt, apparently belonging to the table of rowdies, snapped at his flapping shoe laces. After a quick turn, harsh rebuke and menacing fist, the dog subsided to his master's feet.
As Crew Sanger consumed its meal, the noise at the table of rowdies began to crescendo. The retarded guy was perambulating around, making vague threats and accusations which were universally ignored. Several times he stopped just out of range of the Crew Sanger table, obviously waiting for someone to glance at him so he could engage them in some variation of conversation. It was with the greatest relief that each time, his mother called him gently but sternly away. Nonetheless....
Following the meal Crew Sanger, lounging in the boat dockside, was entertained by another dog who found something tasty at the seaweed-lined waterline and spent some minutes tugging at it, choking pieces back up and tugging some more. Finally, joined by the shoe-lace-biting mutt, the pair wandering off.
Around 4:30 the Crew Sanger fired up and headed off to the Konocti to meet up with friends and begin preparations for a Saturday Night on the Lake.
Sunday at Anderson Island