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Slomoshun
World Famous Hydroplanes
& the people who created them.

Anchor Jensen
1918-2000

31 August 2000

Thoughts on Anchor Jensen.

Perhaps I'm not a great spokesman for the many dignitaries and who's who of Seattle who will no doubt attend Anchor's memorial service, but I feel compelled to say a few words about what Anchor meant to me and what I feel we all have lost.

Firstly, I want to say how special Anchor was to me. I have had some success in life; worked on four continents with very successful people and can point to a number of achievements, both personal and professional. But if asked to name what aspects of my life I consider special; what I am most proud of -- I would certainly have to list the fact that Anchor Jensen counted me among his friends.

Anchor truly was an extraordinary man. Much has been said and written about his diverse talents and his craftsmanship, but he was far more than a master shipwright. To me, Anchor was the absolute personification of the word "integrity". Everything he did; everything he said; everything associated with him could be relied upon with absolute certainty. If Anchor built it, it was done properly. If he repaired it, it was better than the original. If he was reluctant to do something, it was better left undone. I think it is important to take a minute and think about this. Think about the security Anchor provided us; the certainty that whatever our problem, if he turned his mind to it it would be taken care of; end of discussion. I have thought about this a great deal, and I can think of no other individual (or organisation for that matter) that has ever provided anything close to the level of satisfaction Anchor routinely delivered. In our busy, competitive lives, we are forever confronted with questions about reliability, or value, or professionalism. With Anchor, such concerns were completely irrelevant. Anchor embodied what integrity is all about, and I am afraid we will never see that level of personal reliability again. I am saddened by that. It is a great loss.

Anchor created a sanctuary called The Jensen Motor Boat Company. It is my favourite place in Seattle, and perhaps the world. The stressful pace of the world is stripped from your consciousness the moment you step through the large swinging doors into the cavernous hall. The soft afternoon sunlight streaks between the Blanchards and Thunderbirds lined up on their cradles like silent sentinels, patiently awaiting the next few minutes of attention from their owners. The quiet is soothing, and the lasting scent of sawdust or enamel paint mixed with marine air suggest a tranquillity that is only achieved by patient manual labour. Anchor created this place and to me it reflected much of his personality. Nothing is done quickly at the JMC. Lord knows, we all have been frustrated by that. But that was Anchor. He was forever suggesting I slow down; take a little more time with what I was doing; do it right. Anchor understood the natural pace of perfection; that to do things properly takes supreme patience and discipline. The pace of life at the JMC reflected that. Hurrying is a form of deception; it only leads to trouble and mistakes.

Slow down. Take your time. Do it right.

Over the years I spent many hours with Anchor, sitting with him amongst last month's newspapers or under drying clothes in the furnace room. He always seemed to have time to catch up with me; seemed to be interested in my latest adventures around the globe. He was a natural listener, and, like in his work, he was in no hurry to speak his mind. At times it was difficult to keep a conversation going, but I never sensed he didn't want to talk. More often than not he would restrict his comments to a story or anecdote from the past, but there would always be a subtle point. That seemed to be his preferred way of sharing his wisdom. Often we discussed the various mishaps that occur when one is mucking around in boats. Anchor rarely gave advice, but there are two things that he told me that I will always remember: (1) it is easier to stay out of trouble than to get out of trouble, and (2) when encountering foul weather, it is better to be a cork than a splinter. Both are so reflective of his nature. Both fit perfectly with his philosophy.

Slow down. Take your time. Do it right.

I saw Anchor the day before he died. I had brought my family from Australia for our yearly visit to the Northwest, and we were getting ready for the long trip home. We had a visit with him while unloading my boat, Reliant, after a trip to Quartermaster Harbor. Anchor was resting on a seat in the shop, and while I shuffled our gear up to the parking lot he had a chat with my wife and played with our two young children. Susie commented the week before on how healthy he looked; how his grooming had improved and the sparkle in his eyes was back. It was good to see. I have a picture of Anchor with my son William taken during our visit last year, and I planned to take another photo with William and Lily, who is just 5 ½ months old. But we were running late, and the kids were tired after a prolonged wait at the locks, and there was the bridge traffic... I didn't take the picture. I will always regret it. I suspect it would have been the last photograph taken of Anchor, and I would have cherished it for the rest of my life. But perhaps that is the way it was meant to be. One last lesson; one final reminder...

Slow down. Take your time. Do it right.

Tyler Goss
Victoria, Australia

Concrete Boats = Cement Trees
Thom Hamilton

We lived at the dock below their apartment for five of our most memorable, eventful and exciting years. During that time we shared genuine conversations of life's loves and woes, sorrows and laughter. Many people could not understand why Karen and I were accepted onto the historical docks of Jensen Motorboat Co. It must have been a site to see me with my long hair and leather peace symbol sewn on my blue jeans standing next to Anchor in his Khakis and buzz cut and of all things we were in a cement boat! It went without saying that Anchor knew "if " boats were to be [made] of concrete, trees would have been cement. Nevertheless, as much as it must have been against his grain, he looked beyond and saw a young boy and girl who had a dream to be boat builders. For us these were legendary times in a legendary place, neither of which will ever be forgotten.

I would like to say that Anchor talked with me for hours on end, but he was always far too busy. During our watch on Boat Street in the late seventies and early eighties it was seemingly impossible to get even a moment of his time. Anchor pretty much just called me Hamilton and when he did I had to figure out if I was in trouble or in luck. It was always black or white with no small talk in-between. From the time Anchor walked into the shop to the end of the day there were usually people lined up to speak with him. Customers of priority with names of notoriety owning boats with deep bilges and long waterlines, so I never wanted to interrupt.

Eventually, I figured out there were two opportunities to be with Anchor and receive his infinite wisdom. One, ride up to Lopez and help out building the boat shed. Or, more typically, wait for Anchor to have one of his juice breaks. I would quietly step into the shop through the side door from my slip on the dock. Once inside I would quickly close the door then freeze in my footsteps hoping not to be discovered as I only wanted a moment to pause and ponder, to grasp the entourage of emotions and energy the shop emitted. The highly vaulted ceilings were strewn with suspended shapes of hulls, plugs, molds, frames and stringers. Each with a story to tell, all in their own rights, symphonies of songs composed and sung by craftsmen of days gone by.

I would stand motionless seen only by shafts of light bolting through small paned windows and study the shadows cast on timeless tools with handles worn and honed from decades of devotion. Massive chisles and corking mauls, planing-irons, draw knives and tools of which I had no clue, were curios to me. I knew that each and every one had special meanings and purpose of use as they laid in waiting for their next creation. Though most tools had long fallen silent a smell of freshly milled timber seemingly lingered. A magical shop it was indeed with worn timbered floors beckoning stairways and corridored passages. A museum in motion, as a legend in the making.

As an aspiring builder, I felt as a sculptor would feel, touching a tool of Michelangelo, a painter discovering a Picasso or a marine architect in the presence of Philip Rhodes. From my private entry I would quietly walk to the furnace room in the back corner taking in an eyeful of patterns and "boat stuff " hanging on walls and scattered about the benches. Opening the creaking spring-loaded door, I would slide into a worn chair sit down next to the the large dented wood burning barrel boiler look over at Anchor with his high topped boots half unlaced, say, "How ya doin', Anchor" and await his most classic reply of "Humph". I learned if I let Ank' start the conversation my odds of attaining a touch of his wisdom was far greater than if I were the instigator.

One morning as I was working in my little shop under the lean-to Anchor came out the side door looked at me and said, " Hamilton!" There was little chance of this visit being one of luck as he never came by just to visit with me and most assuredly not first thing in the morning. He said, " We have a problem! You are not supposed to run your tools on the dock after seven P.M. and last night you did! " I expressed my regrets profusely. Then as he was walking away he turned his head slightly and said in an almost apologetic way, "It's music to my ears!" Words from the great composer, far and few, short and sweet.

  A few weeks ago I visited Anchor, it was the day before his birthday. I was standing to the side with others in waiting, he finished his

  Conversation with the builder when to my pleasant surprise he turned to me, ignoring the others, and said, " Let's sit and talk. " After twenty-five years of knowing Anchor, I was so proud that our friendship had become a priority, over-ruling waterlines and waiting lines. Anchor spoke to me of how DeWitt had taken the load off his shoulders and how his grandsons were helping out. He told me you must have noticed how nice the parking lot looked that the boys had pulled all the weeds and really spruced up the place.

So to my friend who trained the masters, wrote the rules, broke the records, and composed new symphonies I bid thee fair-well. As in the archives of so many people and places, you will be long remembered in the journals of our family. You hold a chapter of our lives and in so many ways brought music and lyrics to the very songs we sing.

"Hamilton"

Thom, Karen, Tavis & Kacy Jo~