Married sailor luckily survives midlife love affair
Issue 26 : Sept/Oct 2002
I suppose I would have to describe it as a midlife crisis. I have no other name for a situation in which an otherwise sane and thoughtful man would, without warning, plunge so blindly and calamitously into the shadowy world of boat ownership. I have been blindsided by aging hormones and am at a loss as to where I should turn.
My life had been that of a typical married, 40-year-old suburban male, when from deep inside my subconscious rose a hunger, a need for all things salty. One day I’m waging war with slugs in the garden and the next I find myself pacing docks, anxiously peering into windows, and lovingly running my hand along varnished brightwork.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Many years ago, at the innocent age of 16, I had sworn a pact with a buddy of mine that someday we would procure a boat and sail to the Galapagos Islands. Unfortunately, the friend moved away, and I become lost in those inevitable distractions of life: marriage, children, and career.
But the call could not be silenced forever, and one morning I woke up as the proud owner of my very own boat, Yuena Kulayu.
You might ask: What is a Yuena Kulayu? It’s the name of our 26-foot 1978 Thunderbird. This delightful appellation comes from the Nootka Indians who live on the West Coast of British Columbia, and it means “blown around.” I find the name rather charming; I’ve decided to keep it.
It was strictly accidental that Yuena and I met. One fateful day I found myself looking at sailboats and perusing the classifieds in a few local newspapers.
I had no idea what I had in mind when I noticed Yuena in the paper and called her owner, but she was described to me in such loving terms I knew I had to meet her. I was directed to her, and fell in love at first sight.
Brain turned off
Now I know experts insist that one should invest in a complete survey of any used vessel before parting with a dime, and normally I would follow such prudent advice, but like so many other middle-aged males, unfulfilled dreams were beckoning me from a hidden place deep inside, and like an amour-struck adolescent, my brain quietly turned off.
Yuena hadn’t been “blown around” for about five years. The previous owner had hauled her off to a storage yard with plans for some maintenance and repairs, but as is so common with these things, it was put off and put off as she slowly sank into the turf.
She was a bit disheveled when I met her. Her brightwork hadn’t seen varnish in years, the deck paint was peeling, and the tarps she had been half-heartedly wrapped in had long ago rotted into nasty little bits of plastic confetti. There was an old wasps’ nest snuggled up in the forward berth, and rainwater had puddled in her bilge. Her wooden hatches were a frightful sight, though the worst damage appeared to be her transom where the fiberglass had cracked and peeled off the plywood underlay.
But I was in love. I knew very little about boats, but I could easily recognize that she was an honest-to-goodness sailboat. She had a keel, a mast, and a very cute and cuddly cabin. As I sat in her cockpit my eyes glazed over, and I imagined myself at her tiller somewhere in the North Pacific en route to Alaska. I was in the teeth of a gale, and green water was flowing over her decks as I courageously fought the storm, cheered on by the ghosts of Frobisher and Magellan. (I swear a five-year-old peanut butter sandwich that had crawled off and died in the corner was chuckling at me.)
Went for a song
I’m not a complete idiot; I did my best to give her a thorough and comprehensive examination. But since overall she appeared structurally sound, and the owner was letting her go for a song (a death knell?), I decided to fulfill my secret, life-long dream and purchase her, where-is, as-is. Unfortunately, she was in a yard where there was no power for tools. Since it also was a long way from home, I decided to have her hauled to a storage yard that provided power and cheaper storage and was only a few minutes from my place.
Moving her was eventful. When I arrived at the yard we were already two hours behind schedule — the boat hauler had gotten stuck in traffic moving the remains of someone else’s boat (that had been burned to the waterline in a party that had gotten out of hand). I was met at the yard gate by a surly gentleman who wanted to see my receipt of purchase, and when I showed it to him sniffed that the yard fees were five months in arrears and that he would not release the vessel. After several heated phone calls to the previous owner and his banker, the yard manager agreed to set Yuena free, insisting derisively that he “wanted that piece of junk outta’ my yard anyway.”
By now I was in a testy mood — I was paying John, the boat mover, $75 an hour, and he had spent the last 30 minutes leaning against his truck counting the sparrows in the yard. Eventually, we pulled the trailer around in front of Yuena and got everything into position. That’s when I heard him mutter the word I dreaded: “Damn.” Calmly and without a great degree of interest or concern he repeated himself: “Damn . . .”
With a trembling voice I asked what the problem was. He pulled his cap off and scratched his neck with it. It turned out that the boat had stood there for so long it had begun sinking into the ground, and he couldn’t get under the keel with the trailer. I won’t get into details, but the solution involved crowbars and a great deal of sweating and cursing on my part. John remained unfazed. After all his years in the business I guess he had seen it all (or maybe from the vantage point of $75 an hour he was able to have a different philosophical perspective on such “potholes in the road of life”).
Running free
Eventually we got her jacked up enough to slip the trailer under her keel. Just in time for rush hour, we were on our way. My new love was a bizarre sight as she blew down the freeway, swaying like a drunken sailor and wagging her saucy bottom at me as I followed behind. With every bump she would list heavily, and rotten tarp and bits and pieces of her blew off in the wind. She seemed rather like a newlywed zombie as she fled down the road, surrounded by a halo of moldy confetti.
After a white-knuckled eternity, we pulled into the storage yard — her new home. It was a terrible squeeze trying to fit Yuena between a tent trailer and a motor home, but after several attempts, John fit her in. As he prepared to pull out his trailer, he asked me for my blocks, and I marched proudly forward with the 2 1⁄2-inch peelers (fenceposts made from the leftover heartwood from logs) I had bought at the side of the road for a very good price.
He took one look at them, and for the first time that day I saw him rattled. “That’s what you’re gonna block her with? Oh, man, I hope you got insurance,” he said darkly, glancing at the shiny new motor home parked less than a meter away from her towering hull. The peelers had seemed robust enough when I had bought them, but standing there with Yuena’s 4,000-pound bulk teetering over me, I suddenly felt doubtful. But I had nothing else on hand, and so I propped her up, and very slowly, very carefully, John pulled out his trailer. And there she stood, all mine and ready for the love and care that I would administer to her — if she didn’t fall over.
We both stood there and watched to see if she would fall over, but nothing happened. Only the telltale bowing of the peeler toothpicks indicated that gravity was working against me. John took my money and thoughtfully suggested that I build a cradle for her — that very night. As Yuena looked as if a gull lighting on her could have toppled her, I took his advice and quickly built a sturdy cradle for her out of 4 x 4s. I have no fear now of scrambling around on her decks; an earthquake couldn’t put her off her legs.
Not lost after all
I started this essay by claiming that I was lost; actually I think I’ve found myself. As midlife crises go, I now think mine was pretty mild. If some of my friends are any indication, I could have bought an expensive sports car, quit my job, or pursued a new love interest, but instead I spend my free time quietly caulking seams, mixing epoxy, and dreaming of piña coladas and tropical beaches.
Given the deplorable state of my cognitive abilities when I bought Yuena, I’m very thankful that the gods that watch over foolish, middle-aged men in crises were keeping an eye on me that day — Yuena has no major problems, and my wife is not overly threatened by this new love of mine.
By spring, Yuena will be in the water, and she and I will be off exploring new horizons. Until then, I’m glad that winter is coming. I won’t be able to buy that motorcycle I’ve been thinking about.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
