Issue 136: Jan/Feb 2021
Putting this issue together, Good Old Boat Senior Editor Wendy Mitman Clarke said to me, “Personally, I think it’s stupid, the whole ‘two happiest days’ adage. There’s no truth in it for me; the day we sold Luna I cried my eyes out.”
I couldn’t understand. On four occasions over 22 years, I cried my eyes out when my boat sailed away with her new owner at the helm. But each time, those were tears of joy, tears of release as the sales anxiety drained from me, leaving me buoyant and free.
The first sale was a nameless Sabot. I’d picked her up at a swap meet for $40. I’d poured countless hours into repairing and refitting and painting and preening her. I’d sailed her over every square inch of the large Southern California harbor where I was a liveaboard. She and I were tight. But I was finally cutting the dock lines to go cruising, and that alluring horizon eclipsed all other feelings. Selling the Sabot was another item I eagerly checked off the pre-departure to-do list.
Del Viento was a 1980 Newport 27. I’d lived aboard her, and she’d taught me to sail. She’d taken me from California through the Panama Canal to Cuba, to Florida. I knew her inside and out. But it was summertime in South Florida. The mosquitos were eating me alive. I was broke. I had to get back to California and Del Viento couldn’t sell fast enough.
Peapod was a 1977 Newport 16. She lived on a trailer in the Washington Sailing Marina, across the Potomac from Washington, D.C. She was a platform from which I could anchor off Mt. Vernon, sail by the Lincoln Memorial, and enjoy the best views of Washington’s Fourth of July fireworks shows. But a first house, a first child, and a new career meant I was neglecting her. Signing over her pink slip meant she would get the care and use she deserved, and I could begin looking forward to owning a more family-suited boat.
That boat was the second Del Viento, a 1978 Fuji 40 that for eight years was a perfect home for our family. We owned her longer and poured more of ourselves into her than any other boat. She’d taken us halfway around the world before we knew we had to stop. We’d sailed her hard and owed her a full refit. But we were out of money and time.
We packed up, cleaned her up, and boarded a 787 headed back to the States. The economy in Northwest Australia was in the dumps, and though we priced her to sell fast, the days and weeks and months rolled by while our former sailing home sat unoccupied and uninsured across a big ocean.
Deals fell through, issues came up, and the stress mounted. We briefly considered donating Del Viento. And then she sold, and the tears of joy flowed. I was even happier than the day we bought her. I was happier than after any boat sale before this one. It was the happiest day of my life…wait—no, the kids! Except for the days on which Eleanor and Frances were born, it was the happiest day of my life.
I guess the adage does break down for those of us who are both parents and boat owners. We’re supposed to concede that happiest day to the birth of a child. But, to be fair, boat sales can be such a relief. And a boat comes into your life fully actualized, the product of exhaustive research. The child arrives with heaps of hope and potential and promise, but also lots of questions, crying, sleepless nights, and no manuals. Just sayin’.
All four of my sailboat purchases have been joyful—I guess I’ve had eight happiest days—and I wondered how Wendy felt the day she bought Luna.
“We had a 3-year-old and an infant and I told my husband, Johnny, I was going to go batshit crazy if I didn’t get out of suburbia and on the water where I could see the night sky. Luna made that possible. I was intensely happy that day.”
Then she added, “It’s kind of funny. Until then, nothing made me feel quite so much like a grown-up as buying my first keelboat. Not even having kids.”
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
