The Boat Man’s Granddaughter

Told through the eyes of his granddaughter – this is a tribute to the man behind the boats, the sea stories, and the steady hands that kept a small town afloat.

I was raised in a world where customer service didn’t need a Google search and receipts were written by hand – and in triplicate. Where our heat came from a wood stove in the center of the shop and air conditioning sputtered out of a single, very overworked window unit. Where boats weren’t just watercraft, they were a way of life.

Long before I had a resume or a job title, I had a summer job at Holton Marine. My boss was my mama and her boss? The owner. My granddaddy, Jack Holton. Lovingly known to “us kids”, as Dadidee (yes, pronounced just like it looks!). I wasn’t on payroll. I wasn’t qualified. I wasn’t even a teenager yet. But I tagged along with my mom – who ran the office – while Dadidee fixed the boats. And I learned how to work the old-school way: by watching, doing, listening, and learning. Even if I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. And when people found out we were related? They’d say “your granddaddy is the boat man?”

Dadidee didn’t need a neon sign out front to build a reputation. He had skill, character, and a Navy background that showed in the way he carried himself. And you just knew, when you walked into his shop, that you were dealing with a man who knew what he was doing. He’d built his business from his backyard, through hard work and word of mouth. He lived by the Golden Rule and stood on the principle “all a man has is his word”.

“The Shop”, as we’d all grow up calling it, wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t air conditioned comfort. But for many of childhood days, it was “home”.

There were no computers. No inventory scanners. No “search the part number” feature. It was you, a phone call, a parts catalog the size of the phone book, and a fax machine that sounded like it was summoning a UFO.

The receipts were handwritten on 5x7 carbon copied sets. The calculators were loud and the best “software” in the shop was your brain, a grease-smudged Rolodex and decades of know-how.

And I loved it.

I loved how personal it was. How you had to actually know people and remember what kind of boat they had or what model motor they’d been trying to fix on their own since two summers ago.

This was where I got my first lessons in work ethic, customer service, and working with people instead of around them. It was where I learned that being “good at your job” wasn’t about how fast you could click – but about how deep you cared.

The shop was a cinderblock building with a wood stove in the center and a window that struggled to keep up with the SC summers. There was a small office in the back filled with 5-drawer filing cabinets of bills we paid by check and customer files of all who’d come through the door. It would also eventually become home to a desktop computer that weighed more that the cinderblocks that built the shop. Whose screen was pixelated green text that printed on perforated paper with holes on the sides. It looked like it came from a typewriter and each line sounded like nails on a chalkboard as it screeched out one printed line at a time.

And right in the heart of the shop was the counter – not just the spot where transactions took place, but the soul of Holton Marine. Worn from years of elbows leaning in and stories being told, it was where deals were made, neighbors caught up, and laughter echoed louder than the cash register. It ran better than the engines he fixed – and that’s a pretty high standard, but it was more than business – it was connection. Whether you were buying spark plugs, troubleshooting maintenance issues, or just stopping in to say hi, the counter always had room for you. It was the shop’s front porch.

But outside in the back? That was where the real treasures lived – at least to two kids spending summer break there. My brother and I filled our days jumping from boat to boat, all lined up along the back fence like a boneyard of fiberglass and untold stories. These were boats too far gone to fix, but perfect for parts – and even more perfect for our adventures. Most of which came equipped with scrapes, scratches and a threat of tetanus.

Some days we were captains, other days pirates, but every day we were treasure hunters. More often than not, we just wanted to see what we could find hidden under the seats or tucked in old glove boxes. Sometimes it was old keys or sunglasses. Other times a snake seeking solace from the sun. One summer, a stray cat we called Mama Cat turned those junk boats into her own maternity ward. We didn’t even know she’d had kittens until we started hearing tiny meows coming from the wilderness of metal and fiberglass. We banged on hulls, climbed across rotten plywood floors and dry rotting vinyl seats, and meowed back at them until we tracked them down like a rescue mission. We found four. Kept two. Smokey was solid ash gray and Lucky was black and white with a black spot on one eye like a pirates eye patch. We felt lucky to find something so perfect and sweet in a place where most saw only rust and ruin.

Holton Marine wasn’t just a business – it was a hub. Where folks stopped in to say hey because they saw your truck out front. Where Dadidee would stop what he was doing to help someone, even if that kept him after closing. The kind of place where your name mattered, your story was remembered, and a handshake meant something. It was more than motors and mechanics, fishing poles and life jackets. It was about community. It was about helping your neighbor. It was about showing up, doing good work, and staying humble while that work spoke for itself.

I didn’t know it then, but those summers shaped everything about who I am today. My career as an admin? It started there. My love for people? It sparked there. My “old school” approach to work? It was built there – on concrete floors with the sounds of outboard engines and the tractor in the background.

Holton Marine wasn’t just where my Dadidee worked. Its where his life lessons lived. Where he did what he told you he would, offered free advice, and always found a way to help someone out – even if it didn’t make the books look good.

He taught me that it wasn’t about what was in the register. It was about community connection. The kind you don’t find in big-box stores or websites with “live chat” buttons. It was a handshake, a smile and a “how’s your mama?” from across the counter.

I’m proud to be the boat man’s granddaughter, and I still carry those lessons with me. In every job I’ve held. In the way I lead, serve and show up.

Because I wasn’t just raised in a house full of love. I was also raised at a boat shop.