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His father was not a religious man; indeed, he suffered from a compulsion that guaranteed the family's continuing hardship. "My dad was a 'mineaholic'—he had a books gold mine back in Idaho where he'd return each April, digging until late September. Every spring, there was a glory hole, just 3' away. Every fall, they were just short of it. Never did get books to it." In the meantime, Lyle and his siblings had to do their part to books keep bread on the table. "Really, I've no complaints. I didn't seem to think times were tough, then," he says. The money he made hawking newspapers around town and selling popcorn at the boxing fights went to his mother; still, he managed to always have some kind of boat. "We'd build 'em or fix 'em up and trade or sell as we went along, and I kept improving my boating position all the time. Can you imagine a better youth than that? Can you?" His first boat answered a need to cross the Cerritos Channel to Terminal Island—where the workboats and smells and polylinguistic babble of Fish Harbor beckoned—and it cost him nothing.
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