In The Navy

If you're a hardcore college football fan and an avid boater, why not merge the two by joining the Navy — the Vol Navy, that is?

by Michael Verdon

Ka-Boom! The cannon blast surprises everyone — and it’s not because of the loud bang echoing off the hills around Volunteer Landing in Knoxville, Tenn., but rather because it happens so fast. The big Tennessee vs. Georgia game has started, and a whole squadron of the “Vol Navy” — the hundreds of diehard University of Tennessee (UT) Volunteer fans who cruise miles on their boats to attend every home game — are still sitting at the docks across from UT’s Neyland Stadium.

The cannon blasting means the Volunteers have scored a touchdown within minutes of kickoff. It also means we could be missing history in the making. Everyone is expecting the usual lopsided win by fourth-ranked Georgia — even many UT supporters — so a lot of the boaters aren’t in a hurry to leave the comfort of their cockpits and fight the big crowds funneling into the stadium. But when a second boom sounds just minutes later, followed by a huge roar from the crowd, everyone suddenly starts moving in a big hurry. As it turns out, the matchup against the archrival, red-and-white-uniformed “Dawgs” is the game of the season for the 104,072 screaming fans packed in the stadium.

You’re one of them, the Vol Navy’s newest member. But you’re an unlikely recruit, given you’v e never been to a college game in your life. Plus, you don’t have a stitch of the Vols’ trademark gold-orange clothing. In fact, you look like some lost dweeb from the University of Michigan with your royal blue sweatshirt on.

Vol Navy fans gather for the traditional raft-up at Volunteer Landing (left);
Riley and Hal Denton III join thousands to watch an action-packed game.

Fortunately, Barbara Grobicki of Baja Boats and her husband, Kraig DeBenedictis, have the foresight to give you a Vols T-shirt to conceal your ignorant Yankee ways. They’ve also inducted you into the Vol Navy in high-style aboard Baja’s new 335 Performance. Though it’s not “UT orange,” the sleek profile of the yellow-and-white performance cruiser makes a striking fashion statement among the armada of vanilla motoryachts. The boat, able to run in the mid-60s and beat everyone to the docks, is also outfitted with a generous cabin. In short, it’s the ideal tailgating vessel for the Vol Navy experience.

The Vol Navy is one of those timeless activities that has since become so popular it has turned into a venerable college football tradition — like “tailgating” at the Grove in Ole Miss, where men in coats and ties and Southern belles in formal dresses show up for cocktails and food served on fine china. Or at the other end of the spectrum, fans getting out of Ralphie’s way as Colorado’s 1,300-pound buffalo mascot makes several pre-game laps around the stadium.

But the Vol Navy is even better, because all you have to do is show up in a boat — or any kind of floating vessel — and you’re in the Navy. The regulars fly the Vol Navy flag (orange with a white anchor) or wear a Vol Navy admiral’s cap. Lord help you if you’re not wearing at least some sort of UT clothing, because the country’s second-largest college stadium becomes a swirling, hooting and raging sea of orange. Even the end zones are checkered in orange-and-white.

Being the only big team in Eastern Tennessee, “Big Orange” football is much more than a sport to UT fans. “It’s a religion around here,” says Hal Denton Jr., who has been part of the Vol Navy since he moved to Knoxville 14 years ago from Jacksonville. “My wife, who graduated from UT, can name off the top players and all the stats — real Monday morning quarterback stuff. My 8-year-old daughter is just as big a fan.”

Denton and his wife, Susan, started out in a 23-foot bowrider, back in the early ’90s, when the Vol Navy flotilla was just as big and rowdy, with about 200 boats. According to UT legend, former Vol forecaster George Mooney unwittingly kicked off the tradition in 1962 by figuring a boat would be a faster way to beat downtown traffic to the game. He soon had an official movement and lots of recruits for his shortcut.

“When we started in 1993, most of the boats were small. But, like with us, the average size has gotten bigger over the years,” says Denton, who now skippers Jolly Mon, a Sea Ray 540 Sundancer, with Susan and their kids Hal, Sam and Riley. “Now you get raft-ups that can be 12 boats across. The larger boats are also equipped with heating, so most people come for the whole season. Back when we started, the docks would be almost empty on a cold, rainy November day.”

But on this sunny October game day, the weather is Kodak-perfect — not a cloud in the sky, with temperatures in the high 80s. You get a sense of how extensive the Vol Navy is after passing Volunteer Landing, where dozens of boats are already tied up, and then running farther up the Tennessee River to do some speed tests on the new Baja.

As you run upriver, dozens more boats — everyone aboard decked out in orange — head the opposite direction for the game. Some are already yelling cheers, even though the game is hours away. Outside a riverside cottage, an old-timer is sitting in a lawn chair, waving at the passing boats. His yard is full of gnomes and other lawn ornaments, but the real standout is the huge sign that reads: “Go Vols!”

Most Vol Navy fans would agree the scene at Volunteer Landing is best described as an elaborate dockside tailgating party. There are a few bowriders and ski boats, but for the most part, the boats are motoryachts and big convertibles, with the odd houseboat squeezed in among them.

But there’s a warm, affable buzz along the raft-up, with longtime friends tied next to each other, and everyone traipsing across each other’s cockpits to get to the pier. “E-mails start flying on Tuesday, with friends asking what time you’re leaving and if you want to raft-up with them,” says Denton. “Families tend to congregate, and then you have the hardcore party boats in another corner. You get all flavors.”

There are no reservations or any real pecking order for staying along the docks. It’s first-come, first-serve. Some Vol boaters get there the night before to grab a prime spot. And a few true believers even dock at Volunteer Landing for the season. Depending on the weather, many boaters may never even go to the stadium, and instead watch the game in the air-conditioned or heated comfort of their cabins.

With support spanning from both land and sea, the UT Volunteers deliver a
stellar performance and upset the favored UGA Bulldogs squad 35 to 14.

“It’s an ideal setup, because you miss the car traffic, and have a bathroom on board,” says Susan. “The kids can be happy, too, even if it’s bad weather. We can just stay in and watch the game on TV, and they can play with their friends or their Xbox 360.”

By kickoff time at 3:30 p.m., there are a good 200 boats in seven rows at Volunteer Landing, with the stereos cranked up and laughs filling the air. One houseboat has an enormous plasma screen on its deck, with 50 people holding drinks gathered around it. The scene looks something like a Jimmy Buffett concert in Margaritaville.

But inside Neyland Stadium, the atmosphere is electric. The Vols are wiping up the bright green field with the bright red Dawgs — throwing precise passes, running for first downs, and scoring sequential touchdowns, while Georgia fumbles, throws interceptions, and is quickly grinding their No. 4 ranking into the dirt. Every time the Vols make a brilliant play, the Orange Sea erupts into a standing ovation of hoots, screams and cheers turning into one long, unbroken wall of sound.

To you, the enthusiasm is contagious. Having grown up in the 1970s in Columbus, Ohio, under the Woody Hayes dictatorship — er, era — at Ohio State, you’ve always been wary of college football fans. You learned why “fan” is short for “fanatic.” Back then, wearing Michigan blue was considered an act of treason.

But this game feels different. The Vols are on fire, and so is the crowd. You see the appeal of being in a stadium with thousands of other excited people, letting it loose every time the Vols make a breakaway run for a first down or kick an extra point. Life feels good in this stadium — at least for the people in orange.

Around you, a dozen dejected Georgia fans are nursing their hot dogs and warm, smuggled-in beer. But even they remain good-humored about the game.

“We don’t deserve to win the way we’re playing,” says one red-and-black dressed guy. “It’s pathetic.” None of the UT fans disagree, but nobody rubs it in.

At halftime, the Georgia band plays a few songs, and Barbara gets excited when UT’s marching band takes the field. “They’re one of the best bands in the country,” she says. “They always put on a good show.”

But today the Pride of the Southland, as they’re called, turn out to be just a march-in-place backdrop for a local singer, country music vocalist Deana Carter, who hit the big-time. Unfortunately, she’s really hard to hear up in the nosebleed section. Barbara is disappointed the band can’t strut its stuff, and a few weeks later, she even sends you a computer video file of the band in an elaborate maneuver to “prove” how good they really are.

You can see the pride the UT fans take in their football program and in the social aspect of halftime, as college alums and students gather in the aisles to catch up with each other. When play resumes, people keep chatting, but everyone keeps an eye on the monitors to make sure the Vols maintain their lead.

The second half is a horse race, with the Dawgs making two long drives for touchdowns, but the Vols answering back twice. In the end, the Vols are unstoppable, and the UT fans get their wish: a 35-14 victory over the dreaded Dawgs. (UGA would recover to win the Sugar Bowl and finish the season ranked No. 2.) However, the real beauty of the Vol Navy isn’t the football, you discover, but the post-game party on the water.

While some fans do a Jekyll/Hyde change from delirious victors into road-ragers in the snarling traffic outside the stadium, your crew is sipping wine and nibbling on cheese, and eating Barbara’s yummy crabmeat/artichoke dip in the gently swaying cockpit of the Baja.

Barbara and Kraig’s friends — Blue and Robb Dean, and Carrie Catt and Gregg White — drop by after the game for refreshments. We talk about the game, and Kraig entertains us with stories of his motorcycle rides across the Arizona outback. It’s almost twilight, and a number of boats are leaving, but most people are settling in for some socializing. Many Vol Navy families like the Dentons spend the night on their boats, making a weekend of the home game. Water cops are patrolling, but tend to display a polite presence rather than a heavy hand.

There are loud party barges, but most boats — like ours — have small, intimate groups just enjoying each other’s company. As you’re laughing at one of Gregg’s jokes, you suddenly realize you haven’t done anything like this for a long time: just hanging out with people, shooting the breeze and relaxing. The football game instills a sense of camaraderie, while the boat’s atmosphere makes everything feel informal — no awkward standing around and polite chit-chat like at a cocktail party, just hanging out in the cabin, with a few cold ones and new friends. It actually feels like college again, minus the social anxiety and post-party doldrums.

With the stereo playing and stars sparkling, the ride home that night is the perfect way to end your Vol Navy experience. You decide if you ever become a fan of any college team, it’ll be UT. You already have the T-shirt.