Advancing age leads to the delicate decision to downsize
Issue 32 : Sept/Oct 2003
Time to sail, again. Unlikley nuzzles patiently at the sea wall alongside our house. Her bow leans yearningly toward the channel entrance. Unlikely is, as always, eager to go to sea.
We had been planning a passage to Honduras in August to visit our friend, Dale Westin, at his marina in La Cieba. We were scheduled to leave the boat in his loving care for some refinishing work. Our plans were to then head out to sea for another Atlantic crossing.
As the time of departure grew closer, a thought surfaced that I had been avoiding for some time. Considerations leapt to mind that could no longer be ignored. Reese, my husband and mate of 27-plus years had recently turned 80. A quarter of a century earlier he introduced me to sailing on a Westsail 32 with my first bluewater passage. A few years later we asked Ted Brewer to design an ocean-capable 46-foot cutter with a pilothouse and a cute roundy stern. She was built to the highest specs and, fully aware of the arrogance of the undertaking, we christened her Unlikely. She sat in drydock while all the necessary paperwork was completed. With excitement we climbed the ladder to inspect our new home.
While Reese, with boat plan in hand, explored from bow to stern and port to starboard above and below deck, I started my first project, wrapping 1⁄8-inch line around the stainless wheel with half-hitches. I used a wrench to tighten each knot, lest the line unravel. And so a spiral pattern grew. The ridges from the knots felt strong and firm and have lasted through many nautical miles and much egregious weather, including a few hurricanes. Each time at the helm with my hands on my wrappings, I still recall that exhilarating first day aboard.
Facing reality
But now, 24 years later, the time has come to face reality, a condition that few sailors ever achieve. How do I ask the man I love to think about tearing Unlikely, his other love, out of our lives in favor of a smaller, more manageable boat? Unthinkable. Unlikely had been the core of our lives and the stuff of our dreams. She had bonded Reese to me and me to Reese for life as best friends, shipmates, companions, and as sailors of the great oceans. I had learned from her much about myself and others in terms of trust, sharing, and the acceptance of equal responsibilities. Flashes of passages, adventures, quiet moments on watch at sunrise, satisfaction of reaching the next port, emotional peaks, and inward calm . . . all had made so painfully difficult the decision to let her go. But now she seems too much for us to handle.
Waiting for the right moment to approach the formidable suggestion seemed interminable. With a deep breath I finally spurted the question, “Would you ever consider selling Unlikely?” Before I could complete my thought, Reese had closed his eyes. A few minutes — which seemed like hours — passed. It was the most difficult question I had ever asked my husband, and I knew how profoundly challenging it would be for him to even consider the idea.
“We could trade down in size to a boat which I could handle alone, if necessary.” I rationalized, “Wouldn’t it be fun to refit a new boat . . . every decision made together?”
Another moment passed. A wry smile and a nod passed between us.
Sometimes it is best to batten down the hatches, heave to, and weather the storm, a lesson learned in a wild passage off the coast of Sicily. I decided to do just that and let the matter rest until Reese could gather his thoughts. While waiting for him to react, we went about our normal routine of life at home, with Unlikely reprovingly in full view out of every window, her mast peaking high above our roof.
Hired help
No matter what the outcome of the discussion, Unlikely still needed some attention to fiberglass and paint on deck and teak work below, so we hired some help, offloaded everything stowed on board, including hatch covers, doors, and anything screwed down.
While hauling all of the sail bags through the hatches, I noticed a twinkle in Reese’s eyes. Until that moment, I was careful not to push. He sighed, “It’s time, but if we are going to sell her, then we are going to sell her in the Bristol fashion that she came to us. She will have to be perfect before we let her go. And if we let her go, it will be because we can find another, smaller, Ted Brewer design. One good old Brewer deserves another.”
Reese telephoned Ted, who pointed us to his Morgan 38. Perfect size, 12 inches less draft and with the same sailing characteristics we love about Unlikely.
We have rummaged ship completely. On deck and below, all is being refinished. Unlikely is being prepared like a bride for a new mate. Right now I am sitting in the cockpit while Reese unwraps the wheel that I knotted together a quarter of a century earlier. The line comes off reluctantly. The sea has glued the line as tight as our marriage.
It is a bittersweet vision. At one moment memories flash of past joys. In the next moment flash the joys of new horizons on our next boat.
A new wheel to wrap. A new life for us in yet one more Unlikely.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
