I was out on the lake last weekend, paddling this old cedar-strip canoe a buddy of mine rebuilt. Damn thing was a work of art—tight cedar planks, hand-varnished so you could see every grain, like the wood was still alive. The paddles, too—solid, smooth, warm in the hands like they were meant to be there.
We weren’t hauling ass or anything. Just drifting, letting the water do half the work, watching ripples roll out and disappear.
Then this guy comes blasting past in a bright red plastic kayak, arms swinging like he was late to a meeting. And just like that, something clicked.
When the fuck did we decide plastic was the only option?
Not just for kayaks—for everything. We used to build boats from what was around us. Birchbark canoes, dugouts, frame-and-skin kayaks. Then timber-framed rowboats, clinker-built skiffs, cold-molded hulls. They lasted. They could be fixed. They belonged in the water because they came from the land.
Now? Now it’s all polyethylene this, rotomolded that. Big factory machines spit out hulls like cheap lawn chairs. They tell us it’s durable. That it’s “affordable.” That it’s lightweight, impact-resistant, whatever marketing buzzword they’re cycling through this year. But they never talk about the downsides.
- Plastic kayaks can’t really be repaired—at least not in a way that actually lasts. Crack one, and it’s a lost cause. Heat-weld it, and you’re playing the waiting game until it splits again.
- They don’t age—they just degrade. Sunlight weakens the polymer chains, scuffs turn the surface chalky, and after enough time in the water, they shed microplastics you’ll never see, but the fish will swallow.
- They’re disposable, no matter how “tough” they claim to be. Manufacturers crank them out cheap because they expect you to replace them. They’re not heirlooms. They’re barely investments.
And the worst part? Nobody questions it.
Nobody stops to ask, why aren’t we making these out of wood anymore? Did the forests dry up? Did we forget how to steam-bend strips, how to stitch and seal a frame, how to shape ribs and gunwales? Because last I checked, wood still floats. Wood still lasts. Wood still feels right under your hands.
So who’s still doing it the right way?
Who’s still building boats that belong on the water—not in a landfill?
Turns out, not many.
You’ve got a few holdouts. Small boatbuilders up in Maine, a couple of dudes in the Pacific Northwest, a handful of craftsmen in Europe keeping the tradition alive. Some of them are using cedar, ash, and marine ply, sealing it with tung oil or good old-fashioned varnish. Others are stretching canvas over wood frames, the way Inuit qajaqs have been built for centuries. Hell, there’s even a resurgence of skin-on-frame builders making ultralight, plastic-free kayaks that move like they’re an extension of the water itself.
But they’re the exception.
The truth is, the market moved on. Factories can churn out ten thousand plastic kayaks in the time it’d take a skilled builder to finish one wooden one. That’s how we got here. Efficiency over longevity. The easy sell over the thing that actually lasts.
And yeah, sure—plastic boats are cheaper up front. But at what cost?
A wooden kayak, built right, can last a lifetime. It can be cared for. Repaired. Passed down. Try that with a plastic one. See how it holds up after 40 years in the sun.
So no, you’re not crazy. You’re not the only one pissed about this.
The world didn’t stop making real kayaks. It just stopped caring enough to demand them.
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