She’s the best crew a man could hope for
Issue 74 : Sept/Oct 2010
Too many stories about my sailing exploits leave out, or at least don’t give enough credit to, my first mate, Jac. Here is a girl who, never having set foot on a sailboat before meeting me, has risen to the occasion in more than a few of my misadventures.
We had been dating a little more than a year when we stepped out of the movie theater into the bitterly cold Midwestern February evening. The movie we had just watched was a comedy that took place in the Caribbean, a far cry from the ice-covered parking lot we were crossing on our way to my ice-covered car. We ducked in as fast as we could and cuddled for a moment while waiting for the air temperature inside to climb to at least freezing. As I drove her back to her home, we had to laugh about the contrast of our present location versus the warm, sun-drenched beaches we had just sat ooh-ing and aah-ing over for the last 2 hours.
It was on that ride home that I popped the question — you know the one. I took her gloved hand in mine, took a deep breath and said, “Honey, how’s about we buy a sailboat?”
She jumped in with both feet. She admitted she knew nothing about sailing but thought it sounded like fun. How could you not be in love with a girl like that?
We spent the next few weeks searching online and driving to various — still ice-covered — marinas. Our requirements were simple: cheap, big enough to spend the weekend on, cheap, in reasonably good shape, cheap, and not so fancy we would wince if we bumped a dock or two. It had to at least float and have the ability to get in and out of the marina under its own power . . . most of the time.
It was about mid-March when Jac sent me an email link to the ad for the boat we wound up buying. She was in a marina in Perry, Kansas, a 40- to 45-minute drive from where we lived. She was a 1968 28-foot Columbia powered by an Atomic 4 and met all of our requirements: roomy enough for a cozy weekend getaway, seaworthy, and beat-up enough that one or two more scrapes wouldn’t send us over the edge. Oh . . . and cheap. It took us two more weeks to seal the deal. By the time we agreed to purchase Mariner, the ice had all but thawed and temperatures were finally reaching daytime highs of around 60 degrees.
Adventure
Jac showed her mettle the very first time we (I) decided to take our new acquisition for a test drive. We’d spent the day crawling all over our boat, opening everything that would open, wowing at all the cool stuff we found, and ugh-ing over some of the non-cool stuff we found.
By three in the afternoon, we were sitting in the cockpit. The day was cool, but the sun was bright, adding to the excitement of the upcoming season and our dreams of long, sun-drenched summer days under sail. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I just had to try this girl out.
“Let’s take ’er for a quick spin, babe. Whatd’ya say?”
“Can you drive this boat?” she asked.
“Can I drive this boat?” asked I. “Sure, I can! We’ll just take her out of the marina, turn around, and come right back in — just sort of get a feel for her, ya know?”
I was obviously very convincing, as Jac stood up and asked what she should do. I gave her a quick rundown of procedures for getting under way and she, although unsure of her own ability to follow these procedures as I had outlined them, agreed to do her best.
What else could a captain ask of his crew?
I followed the instructions the previous owner shared for starting the Atomic 4 and, soon enough, she was running. Jac released the bow line, and I released the stern line. Throwing our lines into the boat, we clambered aboard and found our way to the cockpit as Mariner slipped away from the dock.
A little bit of reverse while pulling the tiller to port, a quick shift to forward, and we slipped through the buoys that marked our little marina. As I confidently steered onto the lake, I basked in my boat, my crew, and the warm late winter sun — it was too good for words. We motored toward a nearby shore and turned back toward the marina.
Misadventure
It was around 5 p.m.; the sun would only be up for another 30 minutes or so. About 100 yards from the marina entrance, the motor suddenly stopped — no warning, no coughing, spitting, or sputtering; it just ceased to be on.
The sun was setting quickly now. Jac and I were wearing light jackets. The only tools on the boat were whatever the previous owner had forgotten: a pipe wrench, a screwdriver, and a rusted pair of needle-nose pliers.
Jac never said a word, never complained, never freaked out. She just stood by, ready to do whatever was helpful. I checked the usual stuff: fuel supply, spark, air. All those elements were present. It was getting later and colder as we sat helplessly drifting just 50 or so yards from the marina entrance.
We had no additional clothing or blankets with us. No food, no water, no operational toilet. It was dire.
“Well, we’ll just have to sail in,” I told my trusting crew.
Since the wind was nonexistent, that plan failed immediately.
Out of sheer desperation, I tried the key again and, to our delight, the little Atomic 4 roared to life. Wahoo! Yippee! We were saved! But, as we entered the marina, disaster struck again. The motor died once more. The good news: we were inside the marina. The bad news: we were still several hundred yards from our slip.
The worst news: there were many boats between us and our slip, all with anchors more valuable than our whole boat.
We drifted slowly toward the first set of docks as I prepared to fend Mariner off the previously mentioned much-more-expensive boats.
It only took three hours of gingerly pushing off and drifting forward, pushing off and drifting forward to get us safely back to our slip. At one point, we employed as an oar the 1-inch x 4-inch x 2-foot board that served as the companionway step. It worked quite nicely.
On balance, a success
On the way home that night, we determined that since no boats were damaged, no one was injured or killed, and the boat was safely back in her berth, our first outing had been a complete success.
Jac had every reason to be upset by her first sailing experience. I had given her plenty of fodder to use against ever setting foot on that or any other boat with me for as long as we drew breath. Instead, she praised me for getting us in safely. She beamed with pride at what she considered my great resourcefulness against all odds. She lauded my calm demeanor and quick action in the face of this challenge.
As it turned out, there was more water than fuel in the tank of that old boat and eventually we got her running pretty well . . . most of the time. We’ve had many more adventures since that first time out — some good, some challenging. But all were made better thanks to the best crew a man could ever hope for.
Of course, we are married now. I had to marry Jac or risk losing her to another captain.
I’ll probably not go down in history. No one is likely to write books about my sailing prowess. But if they ever open up a hall of fame for the most fearless, faithful, and willing crewmembers, I’m sure Jac’s name will top the list of inductees.
She’s already been called the best sailor on our dock by a few of the old-timers.
They say it’s because she puts up with me.
Who am I to disagree?
Robert Poindexter is a business manager, a freelance writer, and prolific blogger for a top careers blog. Currently landlocked in Kansas City, Missouri, he and his wife, Jac, spend almost every weekend of the Midwestern boating season on Lake Perry, in Kansas.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
