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ON THE WIND
By Chris Caswell

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I cherish that time in between when the last boat is gone and the next one hasn’t yet been discovered. It’s a time of money burning holes in your pockets, of scanning the boat ads and classifieds, of gathering brochures, and of imagining something wonderful that no one else finds before you.

November 2006

Maturity is resisting a fixer-upper, not missing a ‘grind ‘em’ moment

No. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.” That was the final edict from She Who Must Be Obeyed when I broke the news a few months ago that I’d seen a great boat for sale at a dirt-cheap price. Best of all, it was only about 50 miles from our house.

And so it was that we headed south to look at the boat—the dead body and I—after an hour of whining and pouting. All on my part.

I know about those two “best times of a sailor’s life” when he has either just bought a new boat or just sold the old one. I’ve been through both more times than I want my banker or my wife to know about. But I cherish that time in between when the last boat is gone and the next one hasn’t yet been discovered. It’s a time of money burning holes in your pockets, of scanning the boat ads and classifieds, of gathering brochures, and of imagining something wonderful that no one else finds before you. It’s sort of like masticating a loose tooth: You know you shouldn’t, but your tongue can’t stay away.

We’d sold our fleet before we moved to Florida, not knowing what sort of vessel (she says boat, I say boats) we might want on our new waters. Actually, I’d kept one—a lovely 14-foot rowing wherry that I’d built years ago and which had kept my rowing skills intact for four decades. There was no place for it inside the moving van, so it had to be strapped to the top with great effort. We had to stop every so often to make sure the lashings were still in place. And, of course, a tree fell on it during our first hurricane, leaving me with two 7-foot boats. Sigh.

So the boatlessness was getting to me, and then I saw an ad for this classic, which my wife quickly translated to mean an old crock. I called the guy selling the boat and, after his first “It’s in great shape,” our phone conversation hedged down to the fact that, yes, there were a few spots on the deck that you might call “soft.”

He also admitted that the previous owner had refinished the boat and, yes, there were some runs. Oh, and the prop shaft “dripped a bit.”

It sounded like my dream boat. A little sweat equity applying some of the skills I’ve learned from dozens of old crocks and, voilà, a boat ready to take the Best Maintained title at the yacht club opening day. And then I saw the boat. My wife took one look, gave a snort, and asked for the car keys: She’d be in the car with the air conditioning. She now swears I said, “Omigod,” but I don’t remember.

It was an absolute classic, and it was a boat that I spent nights dreaming about some four decades ago when I’d seen one gleaming on a showroom floor. This wasn’t that boat, however.

Soft didn’t even begin to define the deck. This had the consistency of a Twinkie and made the same “squirk” sound when I stepped on it. “A few runs” was a massive understatement: some butcher had slathered on gallons of white house paint, apparently using an old t-shirt instead of a brush. And the leaky prop shaft made Niagara Falls look puny.

It was, in short, a dreadful horror. And it made me realize something about myself. I didn’t want to tackle this project. I’m not so ancient that I’ve stopped buying green bananas, but this was too much.

I knew exactly how to bring this boat back from the dead. I’d rout out the bad deck, glass in new plywood, and lay teak decking on top for a great look. Sandblasting and sanding the hull would lead to a glossy coat of paint, and repacking the shaft log would stem the flood. I just didn’t want to do it. Thirty years ago, it would have been great fun. If you consider being covered with fiberglass dust and wood shavings great fun, of course. A long series of monuments in my driveway testify to that enthusiasm. My wife calls them “boat statues.”

But I’d been noticing that my mind had been writing checks that my body couldn’t cash. Our cat is aging too. Instead of hopping directly onto the dining table, she jumps onto a chair and then onto the table. I know the feeling.

Still, it was tough to walk away from a classic fixer-upper. I knew something had changed in my world—some rite of passage—but I didn’t know what. I think my wife knew about my angst too, because she didn’t give me the usual rash about buying another boat.

Not long afterward, we were aboard a big Swan charter boat in the Caribbean. It was just my wife and me, plus Bob, a sailing photographer who is an old friend. We were close reaching along in a pleasant breeze, sipping piña coladas, and Bob was stretched out in the cockpit. Life was just about perfect.

On the horizon ahead of us appeared a white sail, and instinctively I eased the wheel up a spoke so we were headed to windward of them. Bob opened an eye.
“Boat ahead,” I said.

We’d been in cruising mode, with the genny just about right and the main more or less where it should be set. “I’ll get the genny,” Bob said, and brought her in a few clicks.

“Downhaul could use some tension,” I said and Bob moved to tighten it. From where I sat, I could move the traveler to windward a bit, and did so. “Vang,” I said, and Bob trimmed it half an inch.

My wife appeared in the companionway with fresh piña coladas.

“Don’t even tell me … you’re racing someone,” she said accusingly.

“We’re gonna’ grind ‘em,” I said positively, and she just shook her head with that “boys-will-be-boys” look.
I realized that while I may not want to invest my energy in fixer-upper boats anymore, I know I’ll always have the energy to chase down that distant sail on the horizon.
And grind ‘em.

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