Two classic beauties capture a sailor’s heart
Issue 69 : Nov/Dec 2009
When I open a sailing magazine, I always start flipping through from the back, where all the brokerage listings are. So, on one particular morning, my pattern was no different.
My girlfriend, Mia, and I had sailed to Fell’s Point from Annapolis on my Dad’s 1986 Wauquiez Hood 38, a fi ne boat that I’d gotten to know well while living aboard for more than two years. I was perched at the nav table with my coffee. The radio was playing music in the background and I was enjoying the morning. I turned to a classified ad: “1966 Allied Seabreeze yawl, fully restored. Lying Oxford.” I was not in the market for a sailboat. I was living comfortably on Dad’s boat. I could sail her when I pleased. I was quite content. But I kept returning to re-read this ad.
Mia is Swedish. Mia is tall. And Mia is beautiful. We met during the winter of 2006, backpacking in New Zealand. An unlikely three-week romance turned into a real relationship when she fl ew halfway around the world from New Zealand to Annapolis via Sweden. Since falling in love with Mia, I’ve spent a dark winter in Scandinavia and a sweltering summer in the Caribbean, but I’ve always returned to Annapolis.
I’d grown fond of two-masted boats. Most of my Dad’s previous boats had been ketches, and I’d been crewing on the schooner Woodwind for the past two years. When I saw the ad for the Seabreeze, I was excited not only at the idea of a yawl, but also because it was an Allied. When I was 9 years old, my parents plucked my sister and me from the structure of elementary school and moved us onto our Allied Princess, a 36-foot ketch, bound for the Bahamas and an education in adventure. I learned to love sailing and was instilled with a wanderlust that has grown nearly out of control since I graduated from college a few years ago.
Rendezvous with a new love
Mia and I sailed Dad’s boat back to Annapolis, spinnaker fl ying. A few days later, Dad drove down the Eastern Shore from Pennsylvania and Mia and I drove across the Bay Bridge to meet him in Oxford. It was a gorgeous spring day with a slight chill in the air. As we drove down the eastern side of the bridge, I told Mia I had a strange, good feeling about this boat . . . despite my insistence that this trip was just for fun.
The boat was at Bachelor’s Point Marina, in the yard. It was immediately apparent that this place does not allow ugly boats. Hinckleys, Masons, and Bristols abounded. Every boat was impeccable. As we rounded the bend, I caught a glimpse of the shiny white hull with the dark maroon bootstripe. Her bow curved gracefully upward. I was overwhelmed with excitement; my heart was pounding just at the sight of her, and she didn’t even have her masts stepped. I told Mia this was going to be our boat.
The owner, a Mr. Weems (yes, that Weems, of Weems & Plath) soon arrived and I tried to play it cool. He introduced himself simply as Ben. I complimented him on his boat. She was immaculate, absolutely gorgeous in every respect. Her graceful sheer and elegant overhangs cast a spell on me. Her hull simply looked like a real boat is supposed to. Ben was immensely proud of her, going so far as to show me how he had countersunk all the nail holes in the teak cockpit grate. On deck, the bronze stemhead fitting and shiny stainless-steel cowl vents had me completely head over heels. I knew I was going to own that boat.
We parted ways with Ben that afternoon, my head still spinning. A strange series of coincidences and serendipitous similarities was ever so quickly leading me down the slippery slope toward boat ownership. I was 24 years old, the same age Dad had been when he bought his first boat. His story is eerily similar. He’d been boat shopping with Mom when they saw an ad for a classic Rhodes-designed Chesapeake 32 in Georgetown, on the Northern Chesapeake. They too fell for the boat the second they saw it, when they caught their first glimpse of it from atop the Georgetown bridge. In that instant, they knew they’d own the boat no matter what.
I had told myself that unless the perfect boat came along, in the perfect situation, and at an irresistible price, I was not going to even think about buying a boat, yet suddenly I’d stumbled upon the most beautiful boat I’d ever seen, a boat on my eclectic short-list of boats I’d consider. This list included the rugged but tiny Contessa 32, a fast IOR-era Peterson 34, the European-styled Contest 34, and my Dad’s Wauquiez Hood 38.
So here was a breathtaking Seabreeze that had been lovingly restored by a rather famous owner . . . one who insisted on keeping a broker out of the deal, one who would become a close friend throughout the process, and one with whom I remain in touch today. And, of course, it was an Allied, manufactured by the builder of our beloved Sojourner, the boat I grew up on, earned my sea legs on, and which had left behind the fondest of memories.
That evening I called Ben. We chatted about sailing and about boats. He mentioned to me the intangible notion about how you simply have to love your boat . . . have to have that urge to turn around and admire her as you walk away. That, we decided, was the most important characteristic of any boat. Without it, you may as well forget it.
The next few weeks were strange. I was eager to get a deposit to Ben. I knew he had other people coming to see the boat, and anyone with half a brain could see what a remarkable boat she was. I didn’t want to lose her. Our deal was refreshingly simple; we trusted each other and relied on a “gentlemen’s agreement.” In my hurry, I called Ben from aboard Woodwind and hastily arranged to meet him after work that night. Ironically, we were sailing in Weems Creek on the Severn and ran hard aground at the mouth.
I couldn’t believe it. All I wanted to do was get back to the dock and scurry over to Oxford to secure my boat but here we were with Woodwind hard aground in Ben Weems’ namesake creek. After 10 excruciating minutes, we pivoted off. Our passengers all cheered because they’d learned of my scheme and were rooting for me to get going. They could see the excitement in my eyes. As soon as the last dockline was secured, I sped off to Oxford.
En route, Mia wrote out a simple sales agreement. I had a personal check for the deposit. We met Ben in the parking lot of a grocery store at nearly 10 p.m., exchanged pleasantries, and were off again in no time. I had my boat . . . at least on paper.
Anxious anticipation
Three weeks after I’d first seen her, the Seabreeze was still in the yard at Bachelor’s Point and still without her masts. Ben wanted to complete work that he had begun, launch her, and at least get one look at his beautiful boat before some kid sailed away with her. I was headed for the Caribbean in two weeks to skipper a catamaran for the summer and wanted to get the boat back to Annapolis and sail her for a weekend before I had to leave. I was in a hurry, as usual, but Ben wanted to finish his boat.
We didn’t sign the closing papers until the boat was launched. I met Ben again, this time at his bank, with the remaining balance. I hadn’t yet seen her in the water; I hadn’t even seen her with her masts stepped. We drove down to the marina. I was nearly bursting with excitement. I had just bought a boat I hadn’t yet seen rigged and was about to sail her back to Annapolis. My Dad and Mia were there for the return trip. Ben showed us to the slip. When I saw her, floating elegantly with her full rig, I knew I’d made the right decision. She was more beautiful than I had imagined.
Ben helped us bend on the mainsail and we rigged the dodger. His project was finally complete. We posed for photos on the dock before casting off. I can only imagine the pride Ben felt that day to see his boat completed. It must have been difficult to see us sail away, but I think he felt he’d found the right owner. I’m a USCG-licensed Master, I’d be living on the boat and sailing her regularly, and I had big plans for future cruising. That, to him, was what this boat needed; he had certainly fitted her out properly.
I steered her carefully out of the marina, a ridiculous grin plastered on my face as we motored away from Oxford. I was giddy, the captain of my own boat at the helm for the first time. Dad must have known the feeling.
A name with significance
In Auckland, New Zealand, I’d been invited to sail on a 1930 John Alden schooner named Arcturus. The captain, a died-in-the-wool Kiwi, had the boat in absolutely stunning condition inside and out. I was extremely pleased with myself that I could answer, “Yes,” when he asked if I could rig the fisherman sail. My love of classic boats and my schooner experience was paying off on the other side of the world. There were several varieties of New Zealand beer on board that day and we enjoyed a magical sail under full canvas (we even set the gennaker) in one of the world’s most beautiful and historic cruising grounds. When I took Arcturus’ wheel, a broad smile spread across my face.
Two days later, I met Mia. I knew then, if we ever bought a boat together, we would name her Arcturus.
A rollicking first sail
Neptune was on our side that day. As we trimmed the mizzen, a fine southerly breeze kicked up and we were soon sailing fast, close-hauled, and headed out of the Choptank River. Once clear of the lighthouse, we eased the sheets and steered north. The breeze freshened on cue and, with all sails flying in an unusually large following sea, we ran north on the finest broad reach I’ve ever experienced. The Seabreeze has very low freeboard aft. Each wave that rolled up astern tried to jump aboard before whisking us down its face at speeds up to 8 knots. Arcturus was as surefooted as a mountain goat. When Mia took the helm, I scurried forward, perched myself on the bow pulpit and simply gazed aft at my boat flying with the breeze. She whispered to me with every surge of speed, “Yes, I am a fine boat, a real boat. You made the right decision.”
We sailed as far as we could into Annapolis harbor, skirted some moored boats, and dropped the sails just shy of the Eastport drawbridge. We coaxed the engine back to life long enough to ease into our slip at Sarles Boatyard, right next to Dad’s boat. As I walked down the dock that afternoon, I stopped and turned to admire my new boat. I was smitten. Ben was right.
Andy Schell is a professional captain and freelance writer. He lives aboard Arcturus in Annapolis, Maryland, where he runs sail-training and navigation workshops with his father, also a captain. Next spring, he and his fiancée, Mia, plan to sail Arcturus to Sweden, Mia’s home country. Contact Andy at http://www.fathersonsailing.com.
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