It’s his boat’s way of warning him to pay attention
Issue 48 : May/Jun 2006
Ahhh . . . at last. Spring is here. I can tell by the bump on my head . . . near the hairline on the right side, same as every spring. Well, every spring since I bought Affinity, my 1974 Grampian 30. At first I thought it was the clever ploy of boat designers, all of whom must be 5-foot-5 or less and use their design skills to extract revenge on tall people. The original sales brochures for a Grampian 30 proudly boast of greater than 6- foot headroom in the main saloon and the V-berth. That part is true.
What the brochures don’t tell you is that to get from the saloon to V-berth you must pass under a bulkhead that is a deceptively tall-looking 5 feet 11 inches. And so it is that every spring for the past six years, the first thing I must relearn about sailing is to duck under the bulkhead when moving about belowdecks. The lesson invariably has had me seeing stars, and twice it has drawn blood. It leaves a bump in the same place every spring and teaches me a lesson I remember all summer long.
The first time it happened, after the long diatribe full of language unfit to be reprinted here, I evolved my “evil short designers’ revenge” theory. I still think there’s some credibility to it. But the next year, after the cursing and writhing, I was mad that I had done it again. I knew the bulkhead was there and what would happen. I’d just forgotten. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten and paid the same painful price every year since. But I’ve developed a new theory. Now I’m convinced that it’s Affinity’s way of giving me a very clear and indelible message.
All winter long, I’m like a kid with his nose pressed up against the windowpane looking out and waiting. I love that first day when the weather breaks and I can go down to take the cover off the boat and let the whistling wind whirl all the mustiness and cobwebs of February away and breathe new life into the old hulk.
With indescribable anticipation I climb the ladder to the cockpit, unlock the cabin companionway; go below and forward . . . being careful to duck under the bulkhead. I throw open the forward hatch to let sunlight and fresh air run through from bow to stern.
There is so much to do, so many small, lazy jobs with a skill requirement that make an accompanying beer not only permissible but almost obligatory. Batteries to be charged. Cushions to be put out to air. Brightwork to be sanded. Sparkplugs to be pulled and cleaned. And a close inspection with pencil and paper in hand to make up the detailed list of “to do” projects that must be accomplished before launch. All this with the sun shining overhead, a beverage close at hand, and a self-satisfied smile on my lips.
Other than a day on the lake with a brisk wind and taut sails, could there be anything to match this? Winter is gone, and the entire sailing season lies ahead with its seductive promise of challenge, adventure, and the pure pleasure of having nothing better to do than let the wind take you away.
That’s when it happens. When that feeling of exhilaration, excitement, and anticipation has its hold on me and I’m belowdecks and suddenly remember that there’s something I have to get from the other cabin. I turn quickly, take that big step, and “bang.” Next thing I know I’m on the floor, holding my head, making very rude suggestions of a physically impossible nature about what the designer can do with his boat.
But now I see what has become my annual rite of spring as Affinity, not so gently, telling me something I must remember all season long: never stop thinking about what you’re doing.
The message is to never stop anticipating what has to be done and what you have to look out for when you’re aboard and at sea. Because that’s when it can happen. You get caught up in the magic of it all. You start to take your boat, the sea, and the joy of it all for granted. You forget to do the little things that should be done to keep you and your boat safe and prepared for whatever may come your way.
I’ve no doubt that many sailors more experienced and skilled than I have found their watery demise through a single moment’s carelessness when they didn’t pay attention and forgot to do what they knew they should have done.
We’ve all made horrible mistakes out there, and if we’re still here to talk about them we’ve been fortunate enough to have escaped with a warning. But the sea can be fickle, and our next transgression could be our last.
So, as painful as it is, I’ve come to acknowledge Affinity’s reminder before her hull even hits the water: you have to pay attention all the time.
The summer of 2006 lies before us. Let’s embrace it with the passion and enthusiasm that comes with knowing we’ll only get to live it once. But always keep your weather eye out, sail within your abilities and those of your boat, and if you think you should do something, do it.
Have a great season. And remember to keep your head up — or down — as the situation requires.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
