Issue 133: July/Aug 2020
In the introduction to their book Sensible Cruising: The Thoreau Approach, Don Casey and Lew Hackler suggest that, “The applicability of the philosophy of Thoreau to the activity of cruising is surely one of the most perfect imaginable.” I think Thoreau’s philosophy can also be applied to these pandemic times. We are jammed into this spot at the moment, not our choice, but ours to deal with. Self-reliance and a life lived wide and observed seem key.
Two years ago, I was growing uncomfortable in the city and decided on a path prioritizing expedition, nature, the water, and my kids. I bought a 1981 Cheoy Lee Perry 35. My youngest son fell hard for life aboard and I promised him a season in the Caribbean. We were to leave Lake Ontario for the Atlantic Ocean via the Hudson River this coming October.
Except two years ago, I fell in love with the boat before the deal was done. I “saved money” by trusting the owner, no survey needed. (I know.) She has beautiful lines, solid bones, and everything under the surface needs renovating.
I got serious about learning what a refit was and how to pull one off. I bought or borrowed Calder, Casey, and back issues of Good Old Boat. I watched YouTube. When I replaced the prop shaft last spring, half the marina rooted for us, half waited for us to fail. But the experience left me knowing I could get to where we needed to go.
My focus the first winter was a spanky new electrical system, from the shorepower cord to the tip of the mast. I removed the headliner and cabin sole from bow to stern and traced and identified every 1980s-era wire, bus, and terminal. Then I ripped it all out.
I drew up a healthy daily-use budget, drew arty schematics, and put our shopping list into a Google spreadsheet. I sent my list to the chandler; the manager returned it with prices that were full of goodwill and just enough rope to hang myself. But we would have bells, whistles, and refrigeration. If I stayed on track, I could shoot for a new Beta 25 install the following winter.
The following winter came, I was still working on electrics, and then the pandemic swept the world and closed its doors. Our marina was no exception. We decided not to wonder too far into the future.
Unable to work on the boat, I retreated to the books that got me jazzed about sailing in the first place: A World of My Own, First You Have to Row a Little Boat, and How to Build a Wooden Boat. At night, when I cued up videos on OffCenterHarbor.com, they weren’t from the boatbuilding and maintenance categories; the sailing films had my attention now. We baked bread, perfected the art of weekly shopping, wrote in our journals, and watched “Tiger King.” The wintering birds, eiders and pintails, left for the Arctic just as the herons, cormorants, and swallows returned from the south to build their summer homes. We were reminded of how we like to live; we had stillness, connection, routine, and nature’s grand theater before us.
After a windy Sunday, I got a text from the yard; my boat’s cover had blown a seam. I was happy for a sanctioned excuse to visit my boat. After fixing the cover, I sat below for a while. Thumbing through my copy of Sensible Cruising, I stopped at the chapter on electrical. A quote from Walden opens, “…for a man is rich in the number of things he can afford to let alone.”
It reminded me of something I had heard Alvah Simon say on Andy Schell’s podcast a few weeks earlier, that a sailor must go simply and go now if they are to go at all. He was echoing Thoreau and others. I was becoming undone by the details. Unlike the soft-spoken Simon, Thoreau seems to scream his antidote: Simplify! Simplify!
And that had been my go-to on most things in life. For whatever reason, I’d approached my boat refit the wrong way. Why had I designed for every want as opposed to distilling to needs?
That night I had a good think about the tight spot I was in. I had a beautiful boat, a pair of partners in the undertaking that makes sweat equity fun, and not a lot of money. Over a second beer, I took an axe to the electrical budget, design, and shopping list while making another list of what I had kicking around or could salvage. I saved myself half the cost of that new Beta. But more than that, I remembered who I want to be as a sailor and as a human being. It just took the tight spot of a pandemic and a few sage reminders to show me the way.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
