A fellow sailor’s life viewed with a little envy
Issue 115: July/Aug 2017
I was shocked when I saw her standing there . . . stark . . . alone . . . desolate . . . a solitary silhouette against a blazing sunset. We’d begun at six that morning with a yard full of shiny hulls perched eagerly atop precarious cradles awaiting their turn to splash into the arms of mother harbor. Now this one stood alone; the only one denied the spring of cool water beneath her hull.
Her name was Maj II. While boats always look different out of the water, I recognized her because I’d watched her leave the harbor a great many times, often chugging into a turbulent raining torrent to be tossed from one white cap to another, her skipper clinging determinedly to tiller and lifeline.
Wally was a sailor by choice, but not by trade. He’d spent most of his working years in the Northern Canadian bush searching for oil . . . or gold . . . or some other precious commodity. He was gone almost nine months every year, camping out on his own, moving from one expectation to another, and reporting his hunches to the large resource companies that coveted his talents. His life was self-reliance. With a canoe, a rifle, a fishing rod, and a few luxuries such as butter and flour, he’d be flown into a harsh environment, hundreds — sometimes thousands — of miles from human habitation. To Wally it was the Garden of Eden. There was water, game, fish, and nature’s beauty: the verdant forests, the Northern Lights, the trill of the birds, the chatter of chipmunks, and the howling of wolves.
Upon retirement, he left one paradise for another. A comfortable home with his wife, reconnecting with children who’d grown up without him and with grandchildren who reveled in his stories of the wilderness. And, every summer, there was Maj II. She was a sturdy little ship, but otherwise quite unremarkable, as I suppose was Wally at first glance. Nothing fancy here. An aging gentleman, strong and stocky with a slight limp to his gait. Whenever I heard the chugging of that little engine, I’d leave whatever I was doing to stand waiting for him at the dock. I soon found that wasn’t necessary. While not as agile as he had been, he made up for it with a calm, deliberate docking strategy. At precisely the right moment, the tiny outboard would be reversed, revved, and the boathook would snake out for the spring line and bring it into the cockpit. In one smooth motion it was clicked onto the toe rail and Maj II would glide to a gentle, controlled halt.
After a while, I found myself meeting him at the dock solely in the hope he’d have time for an adult beverage and a bit of conversation. Such a life he’d lived. So comfortable with who he was and what he’d accomplished. There was no need to impress the elk, bears, beavers, and hawks. When in their domain he’d become one of them. Now back in a less-civilized world, he remained steadfast in his quest for inner peace and the joy of living his days as he chose.
Sometimes there’d be doctors’ appointments, grandchildren’s birthdays, or school events, but most days, regardless of weather, Wally and Maj II would chug along the end of the docks toward the gap and out onto the lake. He saw each opportunity to loose the lines and leave shore as a privilege not to be wasted. In a driving rain, he’d simply put on foul weather gear and tug on the cord of that old engine to bring it to life. He recognized why some might embrace modern conveniences such as roller furling, main furling, GPS, and self-tailing winches, but to him the beauty was to keep it pure, to do the work, respect the traditions. How many times I watched him disappear into a mist mere yards from shore, fearing for his safe return . . . and always the afternoon would bring the chugging of that little engine and a very tired, but contented, Wally and Maj II.
Now Maj II stands alone in the dusk awaiting her fate and a new owner. To each of us this time will come, the time when we are no longer able to seek the solitude of the open waters, the joy of a brisk wind, the satisfaction of facing the elements, and then returning safely to shore, tired but fulfilled, with a sense of the purpose of life that escapes so many.
It’s easy to feel remorse for Wally, who will sail no more, but we should save our tears for the many others who squander the opportunities and sit ashore while the wind blows and the sea beckons. Wally understood the sweetness of the seasons and he wasted none of them.
Don Davies, after a lengthy career as an advertising copywriter, marketing consultant, and speechwriter, turned his attention to film scripts, novels, magazine articles, and grandchildren. He lives with his wife, Jacqueline, in Toronto and sails his good old Grampian 30 on Lake Ontario. His website is www.dbdavies.com. Don’s granddaughter, Katerina Davies, made the illustration.
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