The world is full of boats

I get a call from John, the shipyard guy. I left a note on his black  station wagon asking him which boats were for sale in the yard. He said none, but there’s a few that have been left “in really bad shape.”

He’s not sure if they have sails, or a title. And I think I know which one’s he’s talking about. This stout little full keeler that I’ve been admiring, 70’s era, she doesn’t have a mast, at least not one up while she sits in the yard. She’s the one I wanted to know about. Maybe I can get her for pennies, maybe all she needs is some spit shining, sails, new thru-hulls, an interior revamp. Who knows! It could be worth it and doable if he’ll let me work in the yard, and my uncle can give me a hand. As long as her hull and deck are in tact…

But the price of cushions alone is enough to steer a broke sailor away. “Sometimes free boats wind up costing more,” I remember being told.

On the homefront

The closest thing I’ve found to a paying job is my dad offering to give me 20 bucks if I go into the basement and watch an episode of ‘The Walking Dead’ by myself. If I don’t find a job here in the next few weeks, I’ll have to hatch a new plan. Every passing moment I think about boats. I crane my neck in the car spotting a mast in a sea of planing hulls, all hauled out and snug for the season. I arrived at the wrong time for work in my seasonal, coastal hometown. If there are jobs to be had, I’ll just have to look harder. High above the hudson river I’m reminded of the opportunities to sail right in my backyard. A West Wight Potter points it’s bow west. I spot it from thousands of feet away, squinting my eyes. My dad tells me I should get sunglasses, then maybe I won’t squint so much. 

 

Dinghy Dreams

The inception of this mad idea began over a year ago and only now am I truly beginning to thwart off the self-induced skepticism that this dream might actually become a reality in the near future. I hate to say the things I’m going to do, preferring to report once I’ve done them, but I’m choosing to share these humble beginnings with you, small audience.

Perusing a bookstore in the University District of Seattle one week ago I drifted toward the sailing section. Don Casey’s book of Fiberglass Hull & Deck repair caught my eye, and I bought it. Cap’n Fatty Goodlander says to have a memento to remind yourself of your intent…

I’m 26 years old and I’ve just returned to my hometown by the sea to live with my parents so I can save a modest amount of money, with the intention to acquire a modest amount of sailboat. What will happen in between I’m not sure. If you can handle my modest amount of melodrama then join me as I chase my dinghy dream.

“Don’t look back, because someone might be chasing you.” -Tom Waits

Sqaush fear

Do not live off of it. Leap.We learn if we like things by doing them. Don’t fear failure, it’s good. It allows for introspection and a new chance. Don’t listen to that voice, we all have it, the one on the other side of the mirror when glass faces glass. The image that keeps going and never appears to stop–that’s fear. Avoid facing mirrors.

“When I think about forever, I get upset. Like the Land O’ Lakes butter has the Indian girl sitting holding a box and a picture of her on it holding a box, with a picture of her on it holding a box, with a picture of her on it holding a box. You ever notice that?” -Sally Draper

That’s the whole cashew

This island is strange. A mixed bag. It holds every group of humans within the societal structure in a mere 55 square miles. There’s the low riders in tricked out cars, the bleeding hearts, the good ‘ole boys, the hippie-crits. The scientists, the artists, the religious zealots. There’s an overwhelming amount of people who just seem like they’d fit better in the city–which has more restaurants and bars where they could spend their paychecks at every night and then wonder why they’re broke. These people are uninterested in buying their freedom. They work merely so they can exist.The cost of living is high. The median income is low. There’s farmers and slum lords. Migrant workers and drug dealers. When I was living on the boat in the harbor I was part of a small community of voyaging sailors, those that came and went. They graced us with their presence and left before we could learn who they truly were. 

Would I have liked them, if we had interacted day in and day out? Isolated in a tiny boat for the winter I wondered what was out there but never dared to explore it. Now that I have, am I better for it?

Today I felt like an isolated storm had ascended over the island, but when I went outside the sky was crystal clear. The sun was blaring. The dry hills, fields and sand dunes leave me with a depressed, sinking feeling. I’m thirsty for a life well-lived.

Sitting in the passenger seat of my friend’s car we pull up to the pump and the station is out of gas. She’s lived here almost her entire life. “Has this ever happened before?” I ask. “No,” she says with a look of confusion.

We move to another gas station and the vibes are utterly strange. My anxiety is building. It’s the physical symptoms that are getting to me. Like a child’s sized bowling ball lodged in my abdomen. My esophagus constricting. A man revs his engine and backs up without looking, a cyclists quickly pedals out of his way. There’s yelling. Another car pulls up next to us, smoking pot next to the pump. Is the possible ignition of a fire not a factor for them, or are the dangers of smoking at the pump just a myth?

“This place is weird,” my friend says. “Let’s get out of here.”

I come back to the house where I’m staying and can’t shake my uneasy feeling. Perhaps a walk will suffice. I try to rally my roommate’s dog but I can’t get him to come with me for a walk. He sits on the yellow, prickly lawn and stares unblinkingly at nothing.

What’s the point?

We sat outside my Turkish friend’s Napa Valley apartment smoking cigarettes and pondering where our lives would take us next. The rows of vines had turned yellow, Halloween had come and gone. The last fruit had been picked and it was time to move on. She held a degree in food science and had a good job back in Turkey doing quality control for some major food corporations. But when she found wine everything changed.

The economy in Europe made it hard for her to find full time work in wine production. She had traveled from harvest to harvest, continent to continent, and spoke four languages fluently. She would do anything, go anywhere, just to have those fickle fermentations at her finger tips.

She was worried about the crisis in Europe and I asked her if she couldn’t find a wine job, would she be willing to do something else. I’ll never forget her answer that night we sat huddled together under a blanket on the concrete patio with the stars bright in the black sky.

“Yeah, I could do something else,” she said. “But if it’s not wine, what’s the point?”

That’s when I knew my passion for winemaking was waning, or maybe never really there at all. I wondered if I’d ever find my true calling.

In the past week I’ve been pulled in so many different directions. Everyone seems to know exactly what I need. “Just find your own group of friends, those people you would die for.” “Find a job you love, one that allows you to travel.” “Go to the ashram in Seattle and do a work exchange for my guru.”

My own mind has been a carrousel of future possibilities. Backpack through Hawaii? Go on a bike tour? Every time I think about a land based adventure I feel guilty. Like i’m betraying the ocean. Like the sea is my master, and the land my mistress. Ever since my first sailing experience, crossing the Tasman sea three years ago on a yacht delivery, just looking out at the water does not suffice. Since I’ve left Sookie, I can’t even look any more. It hurts too much to sit on the beach staring at the great blue liquid and not be cradled by her gentle yet unruly spirit.

I saw a bicycle for sale on the side of the road and when I called the lady about it she lowered the price $100 and this morning the bike, a Panasonic Villager III, became mine. I withdrew the $150 from my account and was shocked at the remaining balance in my account. Seven dollars. For some reason, though, I’m not scared.

I went down to the marina and spent some time aboard my friend’s Flicka in the afternoon. I told her about all the different possibilities for adventures that had been dancing around in my brain.

“Yeah, I could do anything,” I said after we’d discussed each option ad nauseam. ” But if it’s not boats, what’s the point?”