Come for the truck, stay for the jet skis.

https://lexington.craigslist.org/cto/6121928659.html

I mean, this seems like a good deal for the right buyer...

Dang.

Oh man... Broke and too far away or I would be trying to figure out how to drag these home. I picked up an old fiberglass jon boat hull that would be perfect home for the motor(s) from those ski's. Truck that get's better mileage than my full size would be awesome as well. After moving off the farm it's overkill for 90% of the work/driving I use it for.

DO NOT CLICK ON TOYMAN's BOAT BUILD!

In reply to 914Driver:

LOL right!?!?!?!

914Driver wrote: DO NOT CLICK ON TOYMAN's BOAT BUILD!

I WAS just wondering how toymans boat would work with more engines.

I so want to hear the story on this one!

No one bought this yet?

In reply to TiggerWelder:

inspiration

I meant the story of how this guy came to have three title-less jet skis in his non running truck and now wants them all gone.

In reply to TiggerWelder:

Probably something like this...

Robb White said: I have an aluminum Grumman "Sport Boat". I know, what with all the pontificating I do, that such news is probably a shocker so I guess I'll have to explain myself... do a little more pontificating. I am no kind of purist about anything except for how I don't like to do anything that I don't want to do. I just love a good small boat (I am at best, indifferent about big boats, they are kind of more trouble than joy, I have a long list of little things that I won't lay on you at this time). It doesn't make any difference if the thing is made out of roto-moulded polyethylene or galvanized tin, a good boat is a good boat and a Grumman "Sport Boat" is a good boat. Of course, it ain't quite as good as the one in the shop right now... an open sea rowboat sixteen feet long by six feet wide by probably less than a hundred pounds hull weight and so strong that three stooges couldn't stomp the bottom out of it but a Grumman Sport Boat is a good boat... took me many years to figure out how to build something better. The first Grumman Sport Boat I ever saw was way back in the middle 50's and I only caught the briefest glimpse of it on a trailer on the paved road behind a V8 Ford station wagon. I tried to get a better look but Momma's 36 horse Volkswagen just couldn't catch up no matter how hard I hunched behind the wheel. I was relentless in my pursuit even as a boy (fifteen at the time with a special drivers license that I had had since I was 14 because we lived so far beyond the school bus run) and it didn't take me long to interrogate around and find out what kind of boat it was. Then I set to get me one and an outboard motor to go with it. At first I tried to coerce my Father into springing for the money by the use of eloquent explanation but he said "We already got the Reynolds so what do we need another aluminum boat for?" "It is so light and easy to handle that y'all wouldn't have had such a mess on that Ochlocknee River trip that time." said me. "I don't have any plans for another Ochlocknee river trip in the near future, so I don't need the ideal boat." was his final statement. With that, I knew I had to get me a job and buy the boat on my own. I went to work for the "Chicken King of Cairo, Georgia" (that's pronounced "Karo" like the corn syrup that originated in that metropolis). I didn't have to submit my resume or stand for an interview or anything. The job was unloading boxcars of chicken feed at fifteen bucks a car and if you could do it before the railroad deadline, the job was yours, if you couldn't... and particularly if you couldn't pay the demurrage for the extra day (coincidentally, also $15.00) your ass was gone. I was kind of small and unused to hard work but I was smart. I slipped in the side door as a striker for a big black man whose name will remain anonymous since I don't know what the statute of limitations situation is for some of the crimes that I heard him tell about in the close association we had in the chicken feed cars. Robert had been a bootlegger during the best years of that business back in prohibition days. He had a series of stills back in the tributaries of the Ochlocknee river and was so slick that not only did he not get caught but managed to employ a good many folks and expand his business... "Had a still on every creek", said he. My family owns a good little bit of the land of the Ochlocknee drainage system. "Hell, boy, we had them all over y'allses place... yo grandaddy was my best customer." said Robert. My grandfather was already dead by then so I never got a chance to find out all about it but he was a fearsome bad alcoholic and never had to do without. He was the most wonderful man but that is another story. Another thing about Robert... he was in the train wreck when the shaky trestle over the Ochlocknee River at Hadley Ferry broke down and the sawmill train fell in the river and scalded all those men to death in 1925. He was the fireman in the engine and ought to have been the first one to die but he dove under the water and, though the concussion of the implosion made him bleed out the ears, he was the only survivor of the whole crew... had to walk twenty miles to tell the news and nobody believed him because he was just a (...) ((I ain't going to say that word because my Momma taught me not to). So I tried to help Robert unload that chicken feed for free for a long time. I was too light to handle the damned hand trucks on the steep ramp. I holp (ed. that's an actual word in wide usage in the rural South... kind of substituted for "helped" but not in all cases... I won't labor over it right now) load and trotted down behind Robert to help stack the bags but I could see that I would never be able to carry my end unless I could get to where I could get down the ramp without letting the load get away from me. I tried half loading but Robert said "Boy, you kinda getting in my way with all that." One day (this mess went on seven days a week) Robert had to go to Memphis on business and sent his nephew to take his place. The very first thing that happened was that the nephew let the hand truck get loose from him on the ramp and busted open about eight paper bags of feed. I said "Boy, you kinda getting in my way with all that". It took me from then until car moving time at 9:00 the next morning (about 26 hours) to unload that boxcar but I did it... fifteen bucks.. big money. I don't remember what all I had to do that time, but I finally evolved a way to brake the hand truck with, first my shoes and then two pieces of flat belt that I riveted around the axle and stood on to drag on the ramp to slow the buggy down a little. Pretty soon I was able to ride the truck down the ramp, steering with my "brakes" sort of like a hot-shot skateboard kid these days. Robert and I teamed up. He loaded his buggy while I rode mine down and dumped it at the bottom, then I would hurry back up the ramp with the empty buggy and get the next load. After the car was empty, we would double-team stacking the sacks down in the warehouse. Piece-work in the face of poverty will make an efficiency expert out of most anybody and Robert and I made some pretty good money... enough for me to order a brand new Grumman Sport Boat and buy a second-hand, three horse, two-cylinder, Evinrude weedless three made in Belgium (and you thought "outsourcing" was new) in 1951. We both lost our jobs at the same time over oyster shell supplement. At that time, ground oyster shells were either mixed with chicken feed or fed separately. A train car loaded with oyster shell was a bitch. Though the flimsy paper bags were much smaller than a fifty pound bag of feed, they weighed 90 pounds and the car waiting on the siding was just as full as it could be. It was real hard to even pinch any oyster shell car up to the dock and it was almost impossible to beat the demurrage deadline, no matter how bad we busted our asses. I am afraid that I was the one who feisted up at the "Chicken King" about it and cost us our jobs (which were eagerly taken up by lesser men who had to work late into the night even with carloads of straight laying mash). I felt guilty and told Robert. "Unloading chicken feed ain't all I know to do." he said and I think he went into the rooster fighting business with some Cubans down around Miami but that's just a supposition. He is still alive. In fact, he is the one I get my gardening advice from. He told me to go ahead and set out my tomato and pepper plants after the new moon of February 5th. "Dang, Robert ain't that mighty early?" said me. "Naw, it's all over. You might have to cover them up with a sheet one or two times but they need to be in the ground with that hot manure." said he. I noticed the last time I passed his place that his were even bigger than mine. I think it might have something to do with all them roosters in those little cages behind his house.

Off topic, but I imagine the story would go something like that.

TiggerWelder wrote: I meant the story of how this guy came to have three title-less jet skis in his non running truck and now wants them all gone.

Too many girls weekends and now the county is mad.