Boat Tales

I get a lot of cool email thanks to the blog: I’ve heard from people we’ve met in passing; been given ideas about places yet to come; we’ve been given tips and kudos; and occasionally even been told off; I’ve heard from people who know of my ancestors; and people who think they might be related; I’ve been asked for boat advice, cruising advice, parenting advice and writing advice (and been given loads of the same); and I’ve loved reading them all. But possibly my favourite letter so far came from the grandson of the man who originally built our boat:

“Have I found my granddad’s boat—Dreamtime?” the email from Ireland started.

Learning the history of a boat can be a tricky thing. Being mobile, rename-able, paint-able and in our case completely renovate-able—it’s easy to lose track of a boat’s history. Especially once they’ve sailed through a few owners.

Ceilydh--shortly after buying her

We knew a few things about Ceilydh (ex-Dos Cerveza (sigh), ex-Dreamtime). We knew she had been built in a small yard on Gabriola Island and launched in 1987. We knew she cruised to Alaska at some point in her early life. Then we knew the owner died at some point and the person who bought her tried to charter her as a party boat to indifferent success. By the time we found her in 2004 she was mossy, mouldy and a refuge for wasps.

moss and heaps of 'stuff' showed her neglect

but the pretty varnish (old settee area--now main bunk) showed she'd been loved

 As we brought her back to life we learned things—we met Richard Woods, her designer and consulted him on our modifications (he suggested the cabin was too boxy—we agreed, but we’re tall). We met Grey Davis—who worked in the yard where she was built and learned about the construction methods and materials.

All excellent stuff.

But if you’ve ever owned a boat you know they are so much more than systems and construction techniques. You know that the galleys hold the memories of meals cooked underway, and celebratory dinners when you hit that special anchorage. The settees hold the echoes of tall tales and stories told. The wheel holds the imprint of white-knuckle moments and sublime bliss. The decks hold the stamp of hard work and quiet contemplation.

"My Granddad’s passion was sailing - more specifically - he loved Catamarans. He knew Richard Woods from his time in the UK - and that's why he chose the Meander design. Before Dreamtime - he owned a 25 foot Cat.

I remember being shown home movies of the launch of Dreamtime. The launch was at a place known locally as "The Brickyard" on Gabriola. Roads had to be closed to enable her to drive the short distance from Grey's yard to the launch site.”

 Her first big voyage was to Glacier Bay, Alaska. My Granddad, Nan, two cousins and myself all set sail for a 3 month trip. (A trip I hope to repeat some day with my wife and 3 kids!!!)

I have some wonderful memories of my time with my grandparents on board Dreamtime. I know when you found her she was a little sore on the eyes - but when my Granddad was alive - she always looked great.”

While these memories might somehow be part of the boat, I think things like the echo of long-ago laughter is usually mistaken for wind in the rigging. It takes being told the stories for a boat’s past to come back alive.

 “You may notice a little damage on the Starboard Dagger Board - this was caused by an error in navigation - and a 4 hour wait until the tide came in (my Granddad's excuse was that the chart was out-of-date!!!!)

Does the fresh water erupt like a volcano when you fill it up? - Apparently this was due to no breathing holes being present in the tanks - it was always a good joke to let someone fill her with water and watch them get a good soaking!”

Working hard

 Perhaps I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, but it makes me feel good that we rescued Dreamtime and gave her a new life. And I love the images I now have of her early days—of three cousins and their grandparents on a life changing trip to Alaska…

Curious how many people know the histories of their boats? Any stories out there?

Planes!

There are lots of things that can disturb a deep and peaceful sleep on a boat: Changes in motion, rising wind, engine noise that sounds like you are about to be run over by a very large truck…

The large truck wakes us every time.

First we contemplate whether the island we’re anchored off of has an 8-lane freeway we failed to notice, then we wonder if we dragged up near it. It’s when we poke our head out the hatch when we realize the noise is a float plane – which is coming directly at us.

It took a bit to get used to this. There is something a bit unnerving about staring directly into a propeller; a feeling that hasn’t improved despite the fact that we have the experience multiple times a day. Pretty much any quiet harbour doubles as an airport up here and inevitably we seem to always anchor right in the middle of the runway.

Desolation Sound

I always thought Desolation Sound was given a bum rap by Captain George Vancouver when he charted the area in 1792. Pretty much any cruising guide will tell you about its charms: zillions of islands, fjords and beaches nestled at the base of a snowcapped mountain backdrop, (dominated by 9,000 ft. Mt. Denman). But my guess is when Cpt Vancouver did his time, charting the rocky little bays that twist and turn with currents that don’t make sense and wind that comes from all directions at once, it was raining and blowing a gale.

In those conditions calling the place desolate is sort of a compliment.

The good news for us is Cpt V did an awesome job charting the place – so as the wind kicked up and the skies opened we took cover in a peaceful cove where we cooked up a pasta dinner, baked a cake, invited a friend over from another boat then let Mother Nature do her thing.

This morning the air is crisp and clear. We kayaked into a tidal lagoon and played in the rapids and decided that Cpt V was a bit of a curmudgeon who probably just needed a vacation or something. Actually, we thought something else, but this is a family blog.

What Inspires You?

Sometimes it’s good to rediscover just what moves us. There is a quote I like; to paraphrase, it says we spend our lives searching for the thing that first inspired us. It sounds simple really, and for me it probably is. For me, inspiration comes down to a place: a sheltered harbour, tucked in beside a small cozy town that is ringed by impossibly perfect mountains and glaciers.

I was four or five when I was walking the docks at Comox Harbour with my dad. I remember it as one of those crisp winter days; the sky was bright blue, the mountains snow capped. The wind was calm, but cold slapped at my cheeks. Most of the dock was taken up by fishing boats, their wooden hulls were bright white, their trim painted in jaunty contrast. Here and there were little sailboats. It was those we stopped for most often. “Sweet lines.” I remember hearing, when we stood in front of one just a little longer than all the rest.

The one with sweet lines intrigued me, but there was a different boat that really caught my eye: Strong and long and dark, where the others were light and graceful, I sounded out the hailing port: Hawaii. It was then that I understood that boats could cross oceans. And as pretty as my little town was, with her winding rivers, white sand beaches and dense forests, I knew I would leave.

As a teenager I sailed out of that harbour as often as I could. At high tide I would skirt as close as I dared to the mud flats and dodge my way across the Comox bar – making for the open Straight as quickly as the wind would carry me. In the late afternoon, when the sea breeze shifted and began to drop, I would point my bow at Forbidden Plateau and begin a reluctant tack home. Finally, the day came when I left for good.

The thing about leaving a place as pretty as Comox – is you have to go back. You forget, after a while, what drove you away, and remember a place only for what you love. When the chance came to do a story about the area I knew it was time to sail home.

Maia was anxious to see where it was I grew up. So we tidied the boat and headed to shore. “This is it?” Maia asked, her urban upbringing making her scornful of the short blocks of businesses. “What else do you need?” I asked as we walked. There was a bookstore, a marine store, restaurants and across the street, a mall with a grocery store and pharmacy.

Maia was silent, then told me it looked old. “Old fashioned?” I offered. She pointed across the street at the turn of the century Lorne Hotel. “That’s old fashioned.” She said, “The rest is just old.”

I spent the next few hours touring her around, trying to burnish my hometown’s tarnished image. I told her we could visit the beautiful Filberg Heritage Lodge and Gardens and told her about the old tidal swimming pool that was still there when I was a child. I offered up the long beaches at Kye Bay where at low tide we could search for sand dollars. I pointed out that deer still wander across the street here. But in the end she just wanted the playground.

“I used to make cotton candy at summer fairs and festivals that happened in this park.” I told her as she played. Suddenly her eyes lit up, and I was bestowed with a look of admiration beyond any I’ve ever experienced. Slowly, she started to stroll across the grassy park, taking in the details of the marinas, mountains and the little town on the hill. “It’s so beautiful.” She told me. “I can’t believe you actually lived here. Was the cotton candy pink or blue?”

It’s hard to know with a hometown if the magic you remember is real and tangible to others, or just a figment of childhood.

But it’s good to pop in and check on the place that first inspired me. It’s nice to visit the places I loved and then wander the docks; looking for those far-away hailing ports. When I find one, and I silently month the words, it’s as though I’m five again, and the world is mine to explore.