The boat sleeps under snow now, but tropical sunsets will follow
Issue 46 : Jan/Feb 2006
It’s a cold New England winter morning. I’m up early to get a few sights of Jupiter before the morning twilight fades. Later on I’ll work through the sight reductions and plot the lines of position against those I worked out yesterday for the moon. Winter is a fine time for brushing up on celestial navigation.
Following breakfast, I’m headed down to the marina to peek at the boat. My wife, the voice of reason, naturally asks why. Like any sailor, I have a mental catalog of reasons for visiting the boat off-season and, though most of them are groundless, I manage to respond with one of the more reasonable and convincing: “Have to check the cover.”
The pickup is cold. So cold that the gearshift seems immovable, as though it’s potted in half-cured sealant. When I turn the ignition key, the engine groans despairingly before finally shaking to a start, conveying in no uncertain terms that I’m lucky — this time.
It’s unusually busy in town. I stop at the post office and overhear the chatter. At first it’s the usual winter saw: “Cold enough for ya?” “Burned two cords of wood already.” Then I tune in to more urgent communiqué: “It’s gonna be a big one.” “They’re calling for 6 to 12.” “I heard as much as 18.” “Supposed to start around noon.”
Snow is the order of the day. Outside, the air feels heavy with the weight of it, and I begin to feel a sort of tranquil, yet eager, anticipation. Like a schoolboy, I’m hoping it will come.
The marina is deserted. Aside from a gull standing indifferently atop a piling, I’m completely alone. All but one of the docks have been de-coupled and the various sections are corralled together in one area of the marina that seems locked in ice. Several boats have been left in for the winter, secured by lines doubled-up to the remaining dock.
Life support system
Bubbles stream up and hiss at the surface around them as though they are sustained by a peculiar life support system that keeps the ice pack from completely closing in and devouring them. The yard is packed tight with boats of all kinds: cruisers, racers, sportfishing, commercial fishing, and lobster boats. Some are under cover; many are not. Like hibernating mammoths, they lie in their sturdy cradles, sound asleep. The wind rattles some loose rigging, and the stillness is interrupted as though, in unison, they are snoring. Then it stops and all is calm. The giants don’t awaken.
There’s a menagerie of equipment to the side and rear of the yard office: piles of metal and steel stock, treated lumber, tie-rods, and U-bolts — the typical stuff of boatyards. There’s a tired-out forklift and a hulking crane and even a pair of derelict trailers of the 18-wheeler variety. Behind all this boatyard miscellany, situated so as to almost make them impenetrable, are two giant plastic-over-metal-framed bivouacs, great cocoons that shelter vessels undergoing various degrees of transformation and rehab. Winter is a time of restoration and recovery in the boatyard. Even the Travelift, with its network of hydraulic veins and massive black wheels, sits silently on its steel runway, exhausted from the winter haulout.
I walk cautiously through the maze of boats, ducking under forepeaks and dodging protruding trailer tongues and outdrives. Amidst a row of deep-keeled sailboats supported by poppets and custom cradles, I eventually find Camelot, resting soundly beneath her canvas blanket. The clam-shell vents in her cover keep her breathing freely and when I open the zippered door and climb inside, I am immediately struck by a feeling of quiescence and privilege, as though I have climbed under the covers to join my wife in the darkness of a cold winter’s night. Here, a mistress sleeps.
Delightful view
Under the winter cover, standing in the cockpit and looking over the cabintop to the foredeck is a delight. A boat’s very essence is revealed in the lines of her hull, but it’s above decks where her natural beauty is complemented. As with jewelry, where it’s easy to wear too much, she wears just the right combination: cleats, blocks, winches, runners, traveler — all perfectly located. Unlike jewelry, every bit of her hardware is ultimately functional and ideally suited for use. I stand for a moment longer, studying the sheer of the foredeck, the bulwarks and scuppers, the pulpit and lifelines, the swing of the tiller. As always, I’m struck by the overall intrinsic beauty . . . the epitome of simplicity in design, the likes of which are so obviously absent in a world overburdened with mediocre product and uninspiring technology. I know of nothing else that makes this much sense.
I step down the companionway into the cabin, which is dark and cold but rich with memory and promise. The auxiliary diesel peeks out from behind the companionway steps, greeting me like an old friend, patiently awaiting the care and feeding of spring commissioning. I take a closer look for signs of leaks or freezes. I put my hand on the oil filler cap and think, “Soon, my friend.”
The canvas cover shudders as the wind picks up, and I climb down the ladder and zip the doorway shut just as snow begins to fall. I re-lace one of the cover ties to relieve a section that is beginning to chafe, thus validating the basis of my visit.
Back at home, I set myself up in front of the fire and prepare to work through the morning sights of Jupiter. There’s an assortment of sailing books and publications scattered about and the usual cover shots abound: scenes of cruising boats and sunsets in some distant tropical paradise.
“We’ll be there someday,” my wife says thoughtfully. I nod and think of all the snowbound sailors who share this dream and of the snow falling silently in the sleepy boatyards where their capable vessels lie in wait.
“We will,” I think, “but for now, she sleeps.”
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
