What makes my old boat good

Issue 61: July/Aug 2008

Eleven good reasons for loving her — Andy Vine

She’s called Gwyneth, after my mother. A nice Welsh name. A Crown 28 sloop, Gwyneth was built in Vancouver, British Columbia, in 1974. The word on the dock is that the Crown 28 was pretty much a knockoff of the Cal 2-29, another fine boat of the era. Anyway, around these parts the Crown 28 is known as a well-built, well-balanced boat.

Certainly that’s what she has proven to be for me. After six seasons I’m still happy to see her when I get down to the marina, and that’s a good sign.

So why does she keep my affection flowing? Here are a few of the reasons:

1. She sails well.
2. She has ample standing headroom. My wife insisted on this because she is taller than I am.
3. The first mate also told me to mention the galley, which has a three-burner gimbaled propane stove with an oven. Being able to boil a kettle for tea or make some soup while on a passage is a big plus.
4. She has been well-cared-for. The last owner, who had her for more than a decade, was an engineer who made sure all the mechanical systems were A-1.
5. She has tiller steering, which I much prefer to a wheel.
6. She has a Yamaha 9.9-hp outboard that we love. It’s reliable, has plenty of power, and gives us tons of storage under the bridge deck and cockpit — we call it “the hold.”
7. Did I mention that she sails well? Not that she’s a flier, but boat-for-boat against others of her size, most of the time I’m doing the passing.
8. She’s tough. I put this to the test last season when, due to a navigation hiccup, I tried to change the shape of an underwater reef. Yes, there was some hull damage at the aft end of the keel but nothing that some fiberglass work couldn’t fix. Now she’s stronger than ever.
9. She’s well-equipped for coastal cruising. Since I bought her six years ago, my boat buddy, Ken, and I have added an electric windlass, chart plotter, depth sounder, jiffy reefing, cabin heater, LED lighting, 6-volt batteries with a Xantrex charging/power system, new upholstery, and more. Last year we replaced the standing rigging and changed the furling system to one that works.
10. She looks pleasing in a modest way. Not an outright beauty, but nicely proportioned and “tidy” in a nautical way.
11. She’s mine!

Two summers ago, my wife, Danielle, and I spent a month on board on a cruise to the fabled Broughton Archipelago, about 100 miles north of Desolation Sound. What a joy to be able to cruise in comfort and explore some of the most beautiful and unspoiled waters in the world.

Now I’m planning an odyssey around Vancouver Island, a trip that involves several hundred miles of the open Pacific Ocean on the wild, west coast of the island. Thanks to Gwyneth, the spirit of adventure is still strong in this mid-60s sailor. Hopefully, we’ll enjoy many more years of happy cruising.

Learn more about Canadian songwriter and folk balladeer Andy Vine by visiting www.andyvine.com.

A sailor experiences the bliss of perfect satisfaction — Rick Smeriglio

Upon first inspection, the boat intimidated me. “Too big, too many complicated systems, too much money,” said the thin, reedy voice of inexperience. One look sufficed to tell that a person couldn’t just clean her up for quick resale on the local market. Disorder belowdecks, algae on deck, distressed teak, and other telltale signs of more serious neglect said that this big-boned gal required more commitment than I had to spare.

In truth, I had never owned, maintained, or even steered a vessel of her size. In the end, for reasons more related to a fetching hull shape than to good sense, I just jumped. Signature ink dried, and the U.S. Coast Guard mailed a document declaring that I now owned the boat. I did not yet know this boat, however. So began the long-term relationship that can make any boat a good one.

Supplicant hours spent kneeling at the altar of the engine compartment initiated me into the mysteries of electrical wire, black boxes, and hose. Countless trips to-and-fro with a dock cart kindled knowing smiles on salty faces. Like some overworked Jack Tar of bygone times, I swabbed those dirty decks and slathered soothing oil into that teak. I had become the boatswain: in literal Middle English, a young male servant of the boat.

After years plying Resurrection Bay without me, the boat had more of a reputation than I did. Sailors knew the boat. They said that they had seen her under sail along the coast. I enjoyed the compliments, always for the boat, never for me. I introduced myself to dockside acquaintances who promptly forgot my name. They remembered the boat’s name though. In time, I came to feel shy pride as an associate of the boat.

Happy history

Good times, like migratory birds, came regularly every year. Fresh salmon grilled over a beach fire. Guitar singalongs. Spray-filled days of sailing glory spent all on the same tack. Each pearl of experience duly entered in the log and memory. Photographs, those poignant aids to memory, yellowed in their albums. That glowing, lovely insinuation into the track of my life caused the boat to become good as she aged. The boat has rewarded me with what I have come to want, a history of happiness.

I call my boat good because she has served my purpose so well for so long that I have no desire to start over with an unfamiliar vessel. Sometimes the local sailboat broker half-jokes about my “moving up to a newer, better boat.” I josh back about plans for my proper funeral. The race committee of the William H. Seward Yacht Club will quaff a hogshead of mead, furl me into the cockpit with a marlinespike and a winch handle across my cold chest, and then set Inishmaan ablaze and adrift at sunset on the ebb tide. Higher authorities disallow this ancient rite on any boat that has not yet become good, as well as old.

The manufacturer of my boat discontinued the model years ago. The current cruising market seems to prefer floating living rooms. I may look twice at these young, new models, as any married sailor will. I prefer what I have. I still want the boat that brought me back to the harbor safe and warm after shouldering the vicious chop of a fall gale. I want the boat that the pod of orcas swam next to but never touched. I want the boat that prompted the Coast Guard boarding party to change into clean shoes “because she looked so nice,” as the Coasties said.

Any scow with a mast will get old. A boat becomes good when she continues to satisfy her sailor as they both become old. My good boat, at the newly respectable age of 17, generates golden memories. We have many years and many leagues left in us. I regard it a sound investment in future satisfaction to lavish time and money on such a vessel. I have exactly what I want.

Rick Smeriglio and Ellen O’Brien sail Inishmaan, an Island Packet 35, near their home in Moose Pass, Alaska.

One dark night and a personal voyage of discovery — Anthony DiStefano

Some people say wood makes a good old boat, others say fiberglass, or concrete, or metal, but I say it is feeling. My good old boat is a 1980 Irwin 37 center cockpit that started out as a floating house for the previous owner. When two partners and I purchased her, she became our sailboat in Florida.

All the work had to be done 1,100 miles away in one- and two-week increments. And work we did: new ports, new running rigging, sails cleaned and stitched, engine problems fixed, electricals rewired, headliner replaced, bottom painted, hull painted, new water heater, autopilot, stereo, and on and on. We learned a lot about the boat and each other in the process. I was told over and over that partnerships do not work, but this one did. We found that we could work together, complement and motivate each other . . . and also drive each other nuts. After two years we had a nice, clean, working sailboat. But she had done nothing but daysailing and one or two overnights.

It was not until December 24, 2007, when it all changed. That was the day she became my good old boat. I had left our home port the day before, and now I was doing my first night passage, from Naples to Key West, Florida. Leaving Naples, I was telling myself how well the trip was going: no problems, good weather, but not enough wind.

Alone in the dark

The pivotal moment arrived about 8 p.m., when I could no longer see the last of the lights of Marco Island and the moon had not yet risen. I thought, “Boy, is it dark,” and then it hit me — my cell phone had no signal and there were no lights of other boats that might hear my VHF. I was alone, all alone.

I gave the wheel to Otto, the autopilot, and made a cup of tea. Then I hooked the MP3 player’s six hours of Jimmy Buffett into the stereo and went back to the cockpit with my tea to relax. But I started to think about my situation. At first I wondered why I was here alone, why it was dark, then just plain “Why?”

Then it happened — I started to feel the boat: how well she was sailing, how she moved through the water, how stable she was, how she had come this far with no problems. She was 27 years old — half my age — but she was working hard and, most of all, she was keeping me safe.

She became my good old boat at that point, and we stayed up together sharing the sights and sounds of the night. She kept me company and safe for the rest of the trip and back. I only hope my partners someday discover what a good old boat she is.

Anthony DiStefano, reformed powerboater, has been sailing waters off the Northeast and Florida for the last 11 years on his boat, 3W’s.

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