The ever-narrowing gap twixt cup and lip
Issue 103 : Jul/Aug 2015
A search on the Internet would have you believe that the term “slippery slope” has been in use since 1951. In the grimmest of definitions, it is a downward path on which, once you have made a start, there is no return.
Having wine aboard our boat has been like that, although the path was perhaps not quite so grim. We bought Mystic in 1992. At the time we were teetotalers. With a young son in the house, we were trying to set a good example. A few years passed and it was clear that we were no longer role models for our teenager. So why, exactly, were we abstaining? Herewith the story of the slippery slope. It’s our story and we’re sticking to it.
It starts innocently enough. Once free of that responsibility, we drank wine occasionally at home: holidays, other special occasions, and times when we invited friends over for dinner. But wine did not appear on our table on a daily basis. It never went to our boat with us. We were convinced — and remain so — that weather can change and unforeseen situations can arise quickly. One must, absolutely must, have all his wits about him whenever he is on a boat, whether tied to a dock or at anchor. We did not drink aboard.
Other sailors did, though, and occasionally we’d have a glass — just a glass mind you — when aboard their boats for dinner or cocktails. And we’d have a glass in our own cockpit — just a glass — if they brought a bottle when they came to our boat for dinner. After all, you never know when the circumstances might change from mellow to mayhem. We wanted to be clearheaded if they did.
You already see this coming. We did too. One thing leads to another. Well, perhaps just a glass when tied to the dock is acceptable. After all, what can possibly happen when you’re tied securely from all corners? But we would never, never have a glass at anchor. There are way too many variables then. We had seen too many instances of midnight fire drills when someone dragged down upon us, too many times when we hauled up the anchors in the dark and moved to a more protected spot. We knew. We wanted to be fully alert at every waking moment and easily aroused at the slightest change when asleep.
By this time, we were sure to have a glass of wine around 5 p.m. at home and certainly another one with dinner. Our house was well stocked with bottles and our favorite box wine. We never ran out.
It was only natural that we’d make sure the boat was stocked, too, for those times when it was safe — absolutely safe — to have a glass aboard. Other sailors could drop by unexpectedly. One must be prepared, you know. But what had been a very clear dividing line — always in this situation but never in that situation — had become just the slightest bit blurred with “sometimes” and “occasionally.”
Once the boat is stocked with wine, it remains stocked whether you spend the night in your slip or hanging on the anchor. So there it is: the wine is available and the night looks so calm. What could happen? Perhaps only one glass each, then? Or maybe one when the sun goes over the yardarm and another with dinner?
Since we always anchor with two anchors for extra security, we were able to convince ourselves (it wasn’t very hard really) that we were unlikely to drag and much more secure that way, so a little wine would be OK. In fact, a little Scotch for the skipper surely couldn’t hurt, could it? His appreciation for Scotch has been mentioned many times in these pages. I wouldn’t call it legendary, but he certainly is devoted to a wee dram at 5 p.m. while I make sure the wine doesn’t spoil.
That’s where things stand at this moment. We have pretty much slipped to the bottom of the slope over the past 20-some years we’ve sailed together. Over those years, we were aware of the trend and referred to the slippery slope often. Imagine our surprise in the small town of Warkworth, on New Zealand’s North Island, when we saw the sign warning us of the downward path from which there is no return. How did they know?
