Chance meeting reawakens feelings of gratitude and enthusiasm
Issue 39 : Nov/Dec 2004
Another exuberant gust shook the mast, rattling the rigging, and dragging my attention from the novel on my lap. Glancing irritably at the dancing flame of the diesel heater, I turned to the rain-speckled windows blackened by winter’s early darkness, unthinkingly expecting visible signs of the clattering, wind-driven rain and thrumming shrouds echoing so intrusively through the hull. The dog looked up expectantly, measuring my movement for the potential of food. An empty teacup rattled on its saucer as the wind’s invisible current swirled and eddied through the marina’s copse of masts.
Reclining dejectedly, eyes closed, as nature’s assault swelled in the background like a majestic Sensurround movie score, I floundered upon the tide of discordant reproach flooding my brain. There were the stanchions I’d never found time to re-bed . . . the haulout I’d procrastinated for yet another year as the lawn on the bottom flourished . . . the new upholstery my wife wanted . . . and the radar I’d been longing to buy. Summer’s dry days of opportunity had somehow dwindled away and the depressing monsoon months of a Vancouver winter loomed ahead. Another year gone, another year into middle age, another endless round of maintenance, upgrades, and installation projects with only the new fridge, new teak forepeak shelves, and new windlass to offset the thousands of dollars drained from our bank account.
Thirty-four feet had seemed so promising, after making do with 27: the tall rig, the new sense of speed, all that extra space, all those big boat comforts, all those things we’d planned to add to make her perfect. And now, six liveaboard years later, the list was longer than when we’d started, each item leeching, like spilled engine oil, through the paper towel lining of our savings account. The brass ship’s clock chimed into my malaise — six bells — reminding me of the chicken dinner my wife had made before she’d left for a night out with the girls.
No excuse
“All you have to do is ‘mike’ it,” she’d smiled, smoothing my hair, “so there’s no excuse not to eat.”
“I’d better walk the dog first,” I thought, wriggling into my boots and still-damp slicker.
Twenty minutes later I held the marina gate open and helped a rosy-cheeked youth in a saturated sweater balance an overloaded wheelbarrow down the steep gangway to the docks below. Pillows, cardboard boxes, a sleeping bag, oil lantern, Coleman campstove, and an old rusty outboard glistened with beaded rain pearls in the dock light’s amber glow. “New boat?” I probed inquisitively, shoulders hunched to the slanting rain.
“Yes. First one! A Catalina 22.” He wrestled the wheelbarrow precariously around the corner, wet cheeks beaming with pride and seemingly unaware of his drenched condition. “It’s so neat sleeping on board when there’s a storm, isn’t it? I just couldn’t wait to get down here! I hope the wind and rain last all night!”
As though startled from a nightmare, my thoughts suddenly coalesced around the untarnished innocence of his comments. With alarming clarity I realized that my constant driven focus on the job at hand and projects pending had obscured my incremental drift into a state of jaded myopia. I, too, had once seen with optimistic eyes, felt with a compassionate heart, and appreciated my blessings. I realized now I’d been more focused on what was lacking than on what had been accomplished. Somewhere along the way my “fleet” had foundered.
Helmed all three
“Sailing ship . . . relationship . . . life’s stewardship . . . ” I mused, struggling to weave a path of logic as I splashed along the dock, newly impervious to the stinging rain. “I’ve helmed all three, and all have offered endless intrinsic promise,” I thought, “if only I had kept my own.”
Back aboard, I nuked my dinner with reawakened gratitude, lit the candle in the table centerpiece, and opened a bottle of red wine. The dog sat attentively at my feet, tilted head monitoring the fork’s orbit, while I contemplated the same glowing fireplace and lantern-lit walls whose warmth had imprisoned me only a half hour earlier. The heeling table and shaking mast signaled the passage of an external momentous gust, followed immediately by a familiar clumping overhead. “Teresa! Hi, hon.”
I surprised her with an unexpected hug. “Welcome home! Here’s a glass of wine. Come and cuddle by the fire, and listen to nature’s symphony in the rigging!”
“How much of that wine have you had?” she laughed.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
