Field Notes: Fool’s Gold & Fiberglass
Building My Skiff with Harry Spear
Some things in life sound a lot better than they really are.
Romanticism is its own form of fool’s gold. Roasting your own coffee beans. Homemade sushi. Homesteading and pretty much every DIY home project I have ever attempted.
They look good from a distance. They promise fulfillment. But for many of us, they rarely deliver the way we expect.
So when I got the oppurtunity to build a skiff with Harry Spear, I had no idea what I was getting into—or whether it would actually be the life-changing experience it appeared to be.
All I knew was that I was in over my head.
And that sometimes, that’s exactly where you need to be.
A few years earlier, Harry had been the first person I interviewed for the Captains Collective Podcast. Long before I had any real footing as a host, a storyteller, or even confidence as an angler, he said yes.
Harry had already lived a full career in the Keys, living amongst the small group that helped pioneer much of what we now know as saltwater fly fishing today. He was a respected guide. A prolific tournament winner. An innovator. And one of those names that carries weight without needing to announce itself.
Watching Harry move around his metal building was like watching an inspired painter scour the room for materials—mixing textures, colors, and ideas until the vision in his head began to take shape.
It wasn’t a place of structure.
It was a place of possibility.
The arrangement we had was simple.
I would help film instructional videos for his skiff kits—unfinished hulls that allowed people to build the cap themselves, learn the process, and end up with something truly their own.
At the time, I was tight financially. Really tight. So the opportunity carried weight beyond just my own experience. Not only would I get time with Harry, but if I stuck it out, I’d end up with my first true technical polling skiff.
What I didn’t understand yet was what I would actually walk away with.
Most people never get to see a skiff come to life. They show up somewhere, exchange money, and drive off with something finished. Even those fortunate enough to buy new rarely get closer than choosing colors, technology, or accessories.
Getting to have a front-row, hands-on relationship with my skiff felt different. Like watching something enter the world slowly, intentionally, and intimately.
We used a cap for the hull. Waxed it—over and over—until I started wondering if this was some sort of Karate Kid life lesson that Harry was quietly trying to teach me.
This isn’t a technical skiff-building post, so I’ll describe the process simply: Measure. Cut. Fiberglass, sand, repeat. Wait for things to set. Then do it all again.
It’s a tedious act of love—one that permanently changed my respect for the people who spend their lives building boats.
I spent most of my time in the shop second-guessing myself.
Did I mix the resin correctly?
Did I sand this enough?
Is this even the right tool for the job?
It doesn’t take much for me to feel like I am over my head, and insecurity shows up fast in environments like a boat building shop.
Harry was always direct. He cared about the outcome. He cared that I was actually learning what he was taking the time to teach me. But he was never unfair, rude, or unpleasant to be around.
There was one particularly unpleasant day—thankfully not my fault—when Harry forgot to close a large barrel of resin. The mistake led to hours of flat-shoveling sticky resin off the ground, ruining a decent pair of work boots, and earning a long lunch just to reset.
Even in that moment, I learned something valuable—not from what went wrong, but from how Harry handled it. We did what we needed to do and returned back to work.
I learned far more than I expected about what goes into a skiff, and what actually makes a great boat work. But six years later, the lessons that have really stayed with me have less to do with fiberglass and more to do with life.
Each morning I’d stop at our local gas station, Rocky’s, grab two biscuits, then drink coffee on Harry’s screened-in front porch.
We talked about fishing, life, politics, music, and faith—things Harry carried a deep appreciation for.
We watched albino squirrels and birds move in and out of the feeders all morning. Roosters strut around fruit trees, and occasionally a clip from YouTube that I “had to see.”
Time moved slowly. It was full of meaning and absent of urgency.
I liked it.
There was very little talk about deadlines, social media engagement, or what came next. It was about enjoying the process. Doing things correctly, and paying attention to what actually mattered.
There are a lot of bells and whistles in the fishing world—especially when it comes to boats. We’re constantly purchasing, maintaining, upgrading and worrying about things that don’t really move the needle.
Harry taught me to put my energy into the parts that matter most.
Not just with skiffs—but with life.
My skiff is as simple as it comes. Seventeen and a half feet of lightweight fiberglass. Open bulkheads. Tiller steering. No lights. No trolling motor. No fancy electronics.
It exists to do one thing well—to get me away from the noise, onto the water, and quietly within reach of fish.
“Perfection is achieved not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
That’s true with skiffs.
And I’ve found it to be true with life.
We don’t need nearly as much as we’re told.
What we really need is to focus on what matters most.
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This sounds like such a cool, foundational experience for any younger guy to have. Genuinely enjoyed reading this.
Love this perspective on simplic ity and craftsmanship. The part about Harry's shop being "a place of possibility" really captures something alot of us forget – that real learning happens when you're not trying to control every outcome. The Saint-Exupery quote ties it together perfectly too. Been thinking about what actually needs to be there vs what we're told should be there.