So Noah built an ark...big deal.

 I can remember watching my older brother pack all of his gear every February and head off with all the other Boyscouts to Treasure Valley to spend a weekend freezing their butts off in tents that had absolutely zero creature comforts.  He would come home from the trip smelling like a smokey farm animal.  He always said that he had a blast, and to this day reminisces about the winter trip and the annual summer jamboree.  I was never a Boyscout.  I did not have the desire to dress up in a uniform and spend Tuesday nights at our church hall with a bunch of other guys learning how to tie knots, and I certainly was not going to freeze my ass off in some crappy tent in the middle of the woods.  Not this city boy.
I did join the Cubscouts in an attempt to follow in my brother's footsteps.  I can remember that we were given an assignment to make a model-sized boat at home, from scratch, out of wood.  No plans, no instructions, just go home and build a boat.  In order to pass, we had to bring our vessels to the "Cub Den" the following week, and it had to float...and look something like a boat.
The extent of my father's tools at home consisted of a screwdriver that had a broken tip, a pair of pliers that would pinch your fingers when any pressure was applied, and a small hatchet with a broken handle held together by electrical tape, and a blade as sharp as bowling ball. This thing doubled as our hammer too.  Wood?  Well, obviously given that Dad did not have any tools, you can probably understand that there was not any scrap pieces of "hobby building" wood around.
Realizing that I was pretty much screwed, I began scouring around the house for resources.
Hmmm, clothes pins were made of wood.  So was thing that held the basement door open.  Dad had cigar box that was really cardboard, but had fake wood grain paper on it.  Close enough.
As far as tools were concerned, I had the "hatchhammer" to bang in some rusty nails I found in Dad's old 'coffee can of hardware'.  I found a drill bit in there too and used the 'finger-pinchin' pliers to hold onto it while I drilled a few holes in the clothespins and the side of the box.   I used my mother's sewing scissors like a saw by holding them open with one sharp part in my hand, and the other sharp part gnawing at the door holder-open thingy.
I took care of the rickety-fitting parts by painting the whole thing with a thick coat of dark blue, almost black oil-based, molasses consistency paint that my grandfather had used to seal a crack in our foundation.  Naturally, Dad did not have any paint brushes, so I used some cotton swabs that I stole from my sister.  I tried to make-off with a make-up brush, but she caught me. 
I had finished my paint job on the S.S. Disaster on Sunday afternoon.  The Cub Den meeting was on Monday night and when I went down cellar when I got home after school that Monday to get my creation, the paint was...well, let's just say that the palms of my hands turned blue when I touched it.  Ever the resourceful one, I took to drying the paint with my sister's hair dryer (she was still at work).  Not a portable, hand-held blow dryer like the ladies have today.  No, my sister's hair dryer looked like something they used on the Apollo space missions, complete with a hose and the backpack.  I stuck the blue dingy under the helmet, checked with Mission Control, and let that puppy rip.
When I got to the meeting, we all had to put our boats up on the table.  Mike Petredis's ship was a beautiful PT boat complete with JFK's "109" on the side.  Mark Sacco's boat was a battleship with cannons at the stem and stern, and a bridge complete with a U.S. flag.  Jimmy Feeley had a replica of Aristotle Onassis' white yacht with black pinstripes.
And there was my blue righteous refugee raft complete with a cow-catcher door thingy stuck on the front, and clothespins oars sticking out the sides.  Now I won't say that any of my buddies had help with their creations by father's that knew where the Sear's tool department was, but let's just say that I was just a little suspicious.
When it came time to float our boats, JFK would have been proud of Mike's replica, Mark's battleship did perfect maneuvers, and Jimmy's pleasure craft had a happy crew.  When my turn came up, I put the blue box in the sink, and wouldn't you know it, the damned thing floated.  Sure, the water turned a deep rich blue like the Tidy Bowl man had just buzzed by, but the stupid blue box floated and was deemed seaworthy by the Den Master.
Mike, Mark, Jim and a lot of my friends went on to join the Boy Scouts and I am sure that they had great times earning badges and building fires, and whatnot.  Like I said before, the camping thing was just never for me.  My badge of honor in scouting came for me the day my blue cigar box floated just as well as any of the nicer ships in the fleet.  And if you ever tell the Den Master that it was not really wood, or tell my sister how her hair dryer helmet got blue paint on it, I will deny all.