The hardest part is waiting out the winter
Issue 52: Jan/Feb 2007
ABOUT TWO WEEKS AGO, THE WEATHER improved enough here in the mid-Atlantic for me to rush out to my boat, a 1986 Hunter 28.5, scuff up the ablative bottom paint a bit, and put a new coat on. The next day I was able to wax the hull before the cold weather moved in again. With a launch date looming, I had been worrying that I wouldn’t have enough good weather to get the basic spring maintenance done in time. The thought of having to miss my scheduled launch, and going to the end of the Travelift queue, had been giving me goosebumps. I’d rather forfeit tickets to the Superbowl or a first-run theater performance, than give up my launch date.
It’s been a long winter for me. Maybe all the winters here are the same length — the four months from when the boat is hauled around December first to when it goes back into the drink around April first. But this one seemed longer. I usually occupy myself during this hateful period by doing a few boat-related projects in the basement, catching up on all the boating magazines stacked up in the corner of the family room (which make my wife crazy), and by visiting the boat in the yard every two or three weeks. I tell my friends that these frequent visits to the boat are necessary to ensure that all is well with the boat, that snow or ice hasn’t found its way into the cabin, or to re-adjust the tarps that the wind always seems to rearrange.
I suppose there is some truth to all these reasons, but the real reason I go out to the boat is just to be there. After making a quick inspection of the exterior, I drag out the collapsible ladder and climb into the cockpit. While I’m standing at the wheel, my mind instantly takes me to sea. Turning my head this way and that, the differential pressure of the wind passing my ears tells me exactly where the wind is coming from. I imagine sailing to wonderful destinations far and wide.
Unique smells
As I climb into the cabin, the first sense activated is that of smell. I suppose all boats have unique odors. The combination of musty, stale air, the faint odor of the oils and lubricants used in fall layup, and the many air fresheners I leave out, all combine to produce the most delightful aroma. I’m not sure others would agree that these odors are “delightful,” but I love them. If I were somehow transported, blindfolded, and deposited into an unknown boat, I feel certain my nose would tell me if this were my boat or someone else’s.
My eyes grow accustomed to the relative gloom in the main cabin. Opening the hatches lets in a bit more light and some fresh air. I light a few candles and relax on the main bunk. After checking all the things that need it, I pour some coffee from my thermos and eat the sandwich I’ve brought along. Slipping a CD into my portable boom box, I conduct a Vivaldi concerto. I conclude that Vivaldi must have been a sailor. Life ashore doesn’t get much better than this. I wonder what my friends would think if they could see this side of me — and of sailing — at these times. I love being on the boat and feel lucky.
When I leave the boat, I always do a mental calculation of how long it will be before both of us are back on the water. Driving home, I can’t help but notice the flags flying on buildings and signs. To me, these flags are wind indicators. I’m figuring how strong the wind is and from what direction it’s coming. A “5-knot flag” is as different from a “15-knot flag” as night and day. I know this is an addiction, but I’m a closet wind junky.
In business again
The phone rang on Tuesday. It was my marina calling to tell me my boat has been launched and is in its designated slip. The time has arrived. Groundhogs notwithstanding, this is the official sign that winter is over. Another sailing season has begun.
The next day I visit my boat in her slip. The first thing noticed is how alive she feels underfoot when in the water. I know it’s a silly personification, but I can’t help feeling the boat is happy being afloat after being held immovable in her winter straitjacket. I certainly am happier.
After checking all the mechanical and electrical systems, bending on the sails, and stowing all the stuff that has been living without license in the cabin over the winter, I decide to take a short shakedown sail.
Backing out of the slip, I’m headed for the channel out to deep water, trying to remember all those little sailing tricks in the back of my brain awaiting reactivation. It never fails to amaze me how much one forgets in four short months. Now in deep water, I turn the boat into the wind, set the brake on the wheel, and start raising the main. With the main up and drawing, the low purr of the diesel is ended with a pull of the kill switch, and I’m sailing.
The silence is deafening. It’s almost a spiritual thing the way the boat swooshes through the water effortlessly. Wind, water, boat, and captain are as one. The new 150 genoa unrolls nicely and is sheeted home. The knotmeter jumps from 3 to 5.5 knots almost instantly. After a few tweaks of the control lines, the boat heels to 15 degrees and our speed picks up to 6.5 knots — hull speed — in the fresh breeze. I can’t help but smile as my heartbeat rises. After sailing for more than 30 years, I’m still as excited as a little kid with a new toy. Looking up at the beauty of the full and drawing sails, I’m caught up in the magic of it all.
When I was a kid a few centuries ago, I had the same kind of amazement at how you could put a metal needle on a spinning plastic circle (now you know how old I really am) and somehow music emerged. While I understand the physics and dynamics of sailing as well as most sailors, the idea that these pieces of Dacron can somehow combine to produce enough force to move my 3 1⁄2-ton boat through the water just seems magical.
As my first sail of the season ends, and I’m putting the boat away until my next trip to wonderland, I conclude that, science be damned, sailing really is magic.
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