I never thought of my boat as just an object — she was my sanctuary. I named her “Adele,” after my grandfather, who once taught me how to tie sailor’s knots. Every year, as soon as the weather warmed up, I’d pull her out of storage, clean her, paint her, check the motor, and head out into the bay. Those hours on the water were my moments of peace. No phone calls, no work thoughts — just me, the wind, and the waves.
The fall of 2019 was unusually warm, and I kept putting off my final trip. When the forecast warned of a powerful storm, I figured I still had time. But that night turned into a nightmare: gale-force winds, pouring rain, crashing waves, and the sound of gulls screaming through the dark. I woke up at 4 a.m., couldn’t sit still, and drove straight to North End.
What I saw there was devastating. The dock looked like a battlefield: torn ropes, capsized boats, scattered fiberglass and foam. My Adele lay on her side, half-submerged, with the stern completely shattered. Her mast was broken, her hull split open. I stepped closer and touched the damp wood — a lump rose in my throat.
As I stood there frozen, staring at what was left of my boat, other owners began to arrive. Some walked quickly, others slowly, as if afraid to face what they already knew. People approached the dock in silence, their faces full of disbelief. One man next to me shook his head and said, “Looks like we all lost a piece of ourselves today.” I nodded. We were united in that quiet grief — not just over the damage, but over the memories and emotions tied to those boats.
At first, I was determined to repair her — “I’ll fix it, I have to.” I called around, searched for shops, but everyone told me the same thing: “It would cost more to fix than to replace.” With each conversation, the sense of loss deepened. She wasn’t just a boat. She was my memories. My dad teaching me how to dock. My friends throwing parties on board. The moment I proposed to my wife on her bow during a sunset cruise.
When it became clear that Adele was beyond saving, I started looking for a respectful way to let her go. I came across a few companies, and after some conversations, I chose one that’s been working in Boston for a while — they had a straightforward, no-fuss approach. I wasn’t looking for the cheapest deal or flashy ads — I just needed someone who understood.
They offered derelict boat cleanup in Boston — an inspection, dismantling, and removal service. Everything was handled smoothly and with care. The crew understood what the boat meant to me, and they even gave me time to collect a few personal items from the cabin. They also arranged boat hauling and disposal in Boston, MA, including permits and paperwork. I was surprised it was all done in just a couple of days.
The day Adele was taken away, I stayed behind at the dock. It felt like I was saying goodbye to a part of myself. But now, looking back, I feel gratitude. Grateful for the years I had with her. Grateful for the people who helped close that chapter with dignity. One of those was U.S. Boat Removal — I don’t know if they operate nationwide, but here in Boston, they handled it right.
If you’ve gone through something similar, don’t be afraid to reach out for help. Sometimes, a proper farewell is the best way to honor what once mattered.
