Sailboats have my number. They are my antidote. They give me hope. They are delightful blends of engineering, art, and magic. Six of the elegant bitches have owned me, and I love and miss each one of them. With a sailboat, I am confident, independent, an explorer, a drunkard with a full bottle. Without a sailboat, I am a yokel, lost, tentative, a drunkard at closing time.
The drunkard metaphor is apt. I spent time and money on sailboats as though I had an unlimited supply of both. I sacrificed relationships and material well-being to them. I put sailboats above almost anything or anyone.
But, a year ago, I made a difficult choice and sold my last sailboat. Life changed, and the boat didn't fit the new scheme. It was time to move on. It was the right decision, but since then, to be honest, I have floundered.
I teach sailing in Seattle sometimes. It’s an OK gig, but the seventy-mile drive from Anacortes to Seattle is brutal and stupid. To continue teaching, or to teach more often, I could use a place to crash between classes. A new boat moored in Seattle would work great. It makes perfect sense.
STOP IT!
No, they don’t; boats do not make perfect sense; they never do. They are expensive, demanding, and extravagant.
Yeah, that may be true, but they also are magic with memories like these:
Blue, ruffled water, Kulshan’s snowy cone to port. Maravilla’s double-slotted jib and Code Zed pull like dolphins. We reach fast, windward float high in the air, across Bellingham Channel down Padilla Bay east of Guemes Island. We never touch a sheet. Another - we unfurl Tushitas’ glorious big genoa and roll into Thatcher Pass on a perfectly timed ebb. The sail thunders full, complements the powerful mainsail and pushes her over. Bow down, we run across sparkling Rosario Strait like a locomotive. Another one - years ago - my little San Juan 24 scooting off the shoals on the south end of Bainbridge Island in a stiff norther. It can be like a washing machine there; tumbled waves jack up over the shoals and roll away south. We bounce through the wash, lift on a four-footer, and look directly into the big dark eyes of a harbor seal pup floating backward the next wave over. And the last…a quiet, dark, rainy winter night anchored in Blakely Harbor. The warm yellow cabin light pools across the cockpit, enclosed by transparent protective panels. We drink wine, listen to soft wooden country music, talk softly, and gaze at downtown Seattle, visible across the Sound, smeared by the rain into an impressionist yellow, blue, and white.
Remembering these and hundreds of other magic moments, with sails and stars in my eyes - I went shopping for sailboats - again. Nothing huge or epic, not a cross-ocean cruiser or a speed demon - just a comfortable, well-made, well-maintained vessel to berth at one of Seattle’s marinas. A waterfront pad for recuperation and reflection after a tough day of sail training. But, too, enough of a boat to cruise to Alaska should the opportunity arise.
Opening myself up to THAT old accursed dream again.
The Salish Sea grinned like Gollum with the Ring and tempted me with eight pretty boats, each with a compelling story.
First, in Port Townsend, a Freedom 33 cat ketch. Cat because the mast in the front of the boat is stepped almost at the bow. A ketch because there are two masts. It's an odd configuration for such a small boat, but the boat was smart and clean on the outside and cozy on the inside. Standing in the drizzle on the dock alongside, I noted a strange device on the bow. It was a retractable external bow thruster! An electric motor driving two propellers that - when activated - would push the bow either to the left or the right. The thing was so mounted as to interfere absolutely with any anchoring activity. Dropping the anchor could knock the thing off; it could get tangled in the anchor rode, or it could be snagged again by the anchor on its way up. Why? Why would anyone mount such a thing? I looked at the odd-shaped, inadequate rudder and realized the boat must be a beast to motor around a tight marina, so I understood why someone might paste a bow thruster gadget on the front of a 33-foot boat. But, jeez, why not learn to maneuver the damn thing without it?
I walked away.
The second boat, a little Precision 28, was cute as a button from the outside. She was “owned” by a female grad student at the University of Washington who lived aboard while studying. Upon graduation, she moved ashore and now was in a hurry to sell the boat. Down below was all female spirit, but with the decor of a meth lab. Four of the ten ports leaked rainwater. The cushions were stained, and the bilge was two inches deep with rainwater under the floorboards. The aft cabin cushion was an ill-fitting piece of two-inch foam. As I stood in the middle of the cabin, rainwater dripped from an open electrical connection at the mast. There was a ludicrous alcohol stove in the galley. Nope.
I walked away.
A vibrant young yacht broker - heir to the family business - directed me to the next siren - an all-out raceboat from the 1970s. Her hull was bright red, pinched at the bow and stern, big and broad in the beam. The same hull shape was made famous by the Fastnet Race disaster in 1979. She would be as happy upside down as right-side up. Fifty years of racing and tinkering left the deck a dizzying array of strange and mismatched hardware. Down below, she was dark, angular, and spartan. Some of the instruments were pretty modern; most were relics. The berth was full of old sails and assorted junk. The cushions were stained and thin. She stank of diesel and sour seawater.
I walked away.
We then climbed aboard a thirty-three-foot Ranger sloop built in the seventies. The owner had a growing family and needed a bigger boat for the kiddos and dogs. She was well maintained, with clean topsides and a nice cockpit dodger. But on the stern was an atrocious stainless steel arch built like the Eiffel Tower. It soared above the transom and mounted three solar panels and stout dinghy davits. Down below, the boat was like a seventies mobile home with faux wood accents and hideous yellow and brown cushions. Awful.
I walked away.
The last visit was to a forlorn 1976 C&C 36. I met the tech-bro owner at the dock, and we went over his boat. She was tired and disheveled topsides. Below was a disaster. The electrical panel lay on the berth, a rat’s nest of disconnected, unlabeled wires protruding from a hole in the sidewall. “I’m replacing the old electrical panel with this new one.” He said. “When I’m done, it will be mounted in this nifty hinged panel.” He tossed the panel and its proposed mount back on the berth. I stared at the mess open-mouthed, looking for a way off the boat. Then, using a screwdriver to shift the transmission to neutral, he started the engine. It only took four or five minutes for the choking blue smoke to clear.
I ran away.
Back home, I peered into my phone, salivating at boats.com, until my wrists were sore from tapping and scrolling. I was in a whirl, not thinking straight, driven almost to madness by desire, undone by my appetite. I was hooked good now and wasn't going to get off easy. My new boat was out there…somewhere.
I made appointments with a broker in Anacortes to view two more candidates.
The first, a Catalina 36 - was a widow’s boat. From the dock, I noted her moldy decks, mossy sail covers, rotten running rigging, ancient outboard motor on the stern rail, and odd antenna array on a stern mount. The poor boat hadn't moved for at least five years. Down below, she was messy and worn. At the navigation desk, there was an antique Loran unit…Loran! A pre-GPS navigation system that has been out of service since 2010. Beside the Loran was a Viet Nam era radar set. She was like a museum. Below the floorboards, the bilge was full of oily, dark water to the top of the bilge pump. Once, a sailor loved this boat and the epic adventures they took together. But he is gone these long years, and his widow is about to part with the last thing she has of him. Here was the ghost of sailing future. I couldn’t get off the boat fast enough.
I walked away.
A 1986 Freedom 36 was next. Hauled out, supported by stands, one of hundreds of sailboats stored so in Anacortes. She was for sale because the original owner was too old and frail to sail her solo. She had a fine interior, serviceable sails, and workable running rigging. But she had no dodger or cockpit protection, and her engine had over 4000 hours. Down below, behind an open panel, was a leaky, dead water heater. I’ve replaced boat water heaters before, but I couldn't figure out how to remove this contraption without dismantling half the boat. I stood in the salon and took note of the brass barometer and thermometer on the bulkhead, the mismatched cushions, the Sharpie sailboat model on a counter, the custom bookshelf and wine storage, and the round, custom salon table. Someone loves this boat. Good luck to you, brother. Here was the tragic ghost of sailing present.
I walked away.
Now, I perused the listings on boats.com slowly and carefully, taking notes. I passed on boats that were too old, too expensive, poor design, and too far away.
And then, there she was. A 1988 Beneteau Oceanis 350 with a bright Euro interior and smoked Lexan skylights - skylights!
I met the young broker alongside her berth in Bremerton and liked what I saw. Sure, the engine was original with indeterminate hours (no hour meter). Sure, she had no dodger - but she did have a stout bimini over the helm. Sure, she had rusty keel bolts, making her structural integrity suspect. But her sails looked good; the furler was new, and there was a dinghy and new outboard. Her Frenchy interior was bright, open, and inviting. Standing behind the wheel, looking forward, I thought - “I could have some fun with you!” - and felt the hole in my heart start to close.
The owner was in the midst of a divorce and about to be transferred out of state. The boat had to go. Promising. Considering the old engine, rusty bolts, and lack of cockpit protection, I offered to purchase at 20% off the list price. About an hour after we delivered the signed offer, the broker called. The owner has a loan on the boat - he needs to sell within $1K or $2K of the asking price to pay off the loan. “Can you up your offer?”
I walked away.
It’s blowing cold and hard out of the southeast today - 20 to 30 knots easy, rain. The Salish is that strange opal grey-green color, rolling with whitecaps. She’s in a snit. Low clouds scud over pine-ridged islands, and rain lashes the dancing trees.
I drink tea, watch the storm, and think. I got distracted by a crazy, delusional search for the perfect boat these past few weeks. It showed me a tragic sailing future and a sad sailing present. I’ve already owned perfect boats - six of them. And the last and best of them - Tushita - I let go easy. I could have fought harder to keep her, sure, but the passion is cooling; the body is aging. I can't sail like I used to. I no longer have the time or money to devote to a boat. The truth is, I let her go because I wanted to be free of her.
It is time to move on, to do something else. I’m tired of looking at smelly, drippy, broken sailboats, hoping one of them might save my soul. It’s ridiculous.
Tonight is a glorious night to snuggle warm on the couch and consider the next steps. Free of sailboats, what might that be?
Maybe this…?
“As we crossed the Colorado-Utah border, I saw God in the sky in the form of huge gold sunburning clouds above the desert that seemed to point a finger at me and say, "Pass here and go on, you're on the road to heaven.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Yeah, ain't nothing here can't be left behind.
It’s an illness, those goddamned boats.
Even *I* look at those gorgeous creations from the ‘70’s still when I’m bored! Mid-century Narrowboats. And RVs. Sick! It’s sick!