Sailor or Traveler

This month’s raft-upquestion is a good one, if a little self-indulgent;) Was I a sailor or a traveler first? Jane asked us to take a stand so I will, sort of.:

The answer is cruiser—I think I’ve always been a cruiser.

There is a chance I may not have been either and sailor or traveler.  But when I was five and was walking the docks at Comox Harbour with my dad I discovered a different future. Most of the dock was taken up by fishing boats; their wooden hulls 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 seemed nice, 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 as a question for my dad: Hawaii. With his explanation I understood that small boats could cross oceans. And as pretty as my little town was; with her mountains, winding river, white sand beaches and dense forests, I knew in that moment I was destined to leave.

17 years ago we set sail on this little boat-- after eight years away we came home with a baby

I’m not the first in my family to suffer from wanderlust. Family genealogists place Alexander Selkirk (the ‘real’ Robinson Crusoe) in our lineage. But no one else in the family (at least in the modern bunch-I’m a 6^th generation Vancouver Islander) is a sailor and most are confirmed homebodies. That day at the dock was more than likely the result of my mum kicking me and my dad out of the house so she could vacuum, than any real desire on my dad’s part to look at boats.

But the result—the planting of a dream—is one that most sailors can relate to. Every cruiser (and wannabe) can tell you about a moment, a book, a boat, or a sailor who opened up the world of possibility to them.

Where Did Cruisers Come From?

Knowing that cruising exists is different than packing up your life and moving aboard a boat though. And I wonder if part my answer lies in the fact that so many of the cruising pioneers have Canadian roots: Joshua Slocum who circumnavigated the world between 1895 and 1898; John Voss who sailed the Tilikum from Vancouver to England in 1901; Miles and Beryl Smeeton; Larry Pardey, who along with his wife Lin taught us simple boats and small budgets weren’t a barrier to cruising; the Copeland family, who inspired couples with children to set off.

Or perhaps my inspiration came on a school visit to the Maritime Museum in Victoria when I saw the Tilikum on display. Maybe seeing this small voyaging boat somehow colluded with my glimpse of that first tantalizing boat from Hawaii--and rather than setting off on a practical path (which would eventually result in a land-based home and a decent retirement fund) I was compelled to follow in Voss’s rather riskier wake.

I might credit Voss. But Voss credits Joshua Slocum’s three year circumnavigation for prompting his own 40,000 mile trip. Slocum set off alone from Boston in 1895 in Spray, a “rotting old oyster sloop” that he had rebuilt. His achievement, becoming the first man to sail around the world single handed (and for the fun of it) brought him fame. And the book he wrote, Sailing Alone Around the World, encouraged throngs of small-boat voyagers and adventurers to set sail.

 I went on to learn to sail. Initially it was just so I could race. Then I learned more so I could teach. But the plan was always to follow in the wake of those early sailors—to ghost into a village at dawn; to meet people in their homes, not at tourist attractions. I never actually left my little slice of the North West until I sailed off. The furthest I’ve ever travelled has been while under sail.

Dana asks if my view on travel and sailing has changed at all since I started? My answer to this is no, it’s as magical as I expected. And yes, I could never have imagined what it would truly be like to be on a small boat in the middle of the ocean before we actually did it. 

Travelling this way has always been all I ever hoped for and now it's even more as it expands to encompass our daughter.

Check out how the other raft-up members answered and are answering this question

Dana svnorthfork.blogspot.com

Jane morejoyeverywhere.blogspot.com

Steph sailblogs.com/member/nornabiron

Behan www.sv-totem.com

Jessica mvfelicity.blogspot.com

Tammy ploddinginparadise.blogspot.com

Jaye http://lifeafloatarchives.blogspot.com/

Diane http://maiaaboard.blogspot.com.au/

Lynn www.sailcelebration.blogspot.com

Stacey http://sv-bellavita.blogspot.com.au/

Dana svnorthfork.blogspot.com

Keeping Warm

no one sat in the central gazebo when last night's chilly wind blew

We’re past the ‘barefoot in the sand’ season. It’s still lovely and warm during the day—shorts weather really, but at night it’s cool enough that we need a blanket on our bed. And at night, when the northerlies are blowing, it’s cold enough that even the malecon loses its appeal. Last night we even fired up the heater.

Happily--after having our fill of outside activities all year—we don’t mind heading inside for a bit. Especially because the warmth inside comes not just from windows and doors—but from new friends.

sharing my birthday with the folks from Endurance

 

Guaymas is an interesting place to be as far as cruising friends go. It has some of the largest, safest and closest to the US boat yards found in Mexico—so cruisers here are a cross section of those who are just starting (or in one case still shopping), those who are finishing up and getting ready to sell their boats and those who are returning from a hiatus.

Being around so many people who are at different stages in their journey is both a privilege and an education. We get to share both the dreams and the memories, answer the questions and learn new lessons. It also makes us really appreciate the place we’re at—that we’re proud of what we’ve done but excited that there is still so much more to come.

Dismasted!!

Thankfully—not us.

But whenever a wounded boat limps into harbour, every boater tends to pause and imagine the what-ifs…

The story of this trimaran is a bit of a sad one. The boat is owned by a long-time Baja sailor. He decided that this was the year to sell it. He’s got a place on land. And as everyone knows, boats are a heck of a lot of work--especially if you’re a single hander on a budget and your boat is getting on in years.

Enter the family with a dream and a pile of cash in hand.

Old plywood trimarans are a favourite within a subset of sailors--mainly because they’re cheap do-it-yourself craft that (if you get lucky and get a good one) can jumpstart you into the cruising life.

The trick with buying a cheap DIY boat though is to go into the deal with your eyes wide open. Unfortunately a lot of people who buy the cheap boats are actually people trying to buy the cruising dream with out paying the full price and without a full concept of what it really takes. And in the case of this boat, the family that came to buy it decided to save money by not having the boat surveyed. The fellow buying the boat felt he knew enough about boats to survey it himself.

 There are places to save money with a boat--but most people agree the survey isn't one. I know some very skilled and hugely knowledgeable boaters who would never survey a boat for themselves. It's too fraught. You're too emotionally involved right from the outset. It's too easy to overlook the obvious when you want a deal to work out.

one of the chainplates--at least two have cracks like this

But sometimes Neptune looks out for innocents. Because the owner put off sealing the deal. He wanted one last sail on his old boat before he decided if he was really ready to part with it.

So they all set out this morning. They were headed on an overnight passage to Escondido. Once they got in he would sell her. But five miles out the wind piped up. The old boat was making seven-eight knots. Then the starboard shroud chainplate came apart and the mast came down.

Fortunately it happened close to shore—before they hit the larger seas and stronger winds. And before night fell. No one was hurt and with careful actions they saved the sails. Happily the singlehander wasn’t on his own, and luckily for the family their nest egg and sailing dream isn’t currently in pieces.

But hurt boats suck.

Sinking Dream

We first saw E in Cortez Bay, tucked in out of the rain looking sturdy and homely amongst the sleek yacht club boats. Her old fashioned lines, tan sails and British flag piqued our curiosity. She was small to have come so far, maybe 27”. But as fellow bluewater cruisers, we watched her decks with more interest than those of the other boats. We hoped to catch a glimpse of her skipper, the way kids eagerly watch the moving truck for playmates when new neighbours move in.

We met her skipper, R, a few days later – in Prideau Haven. Conversations between sailors start in a different place than normal chats. Rather than talking about careers or kids we talked of where we’ve been and who we know in common. Then we moved on to boats: boat’s we’ve had, designs we admire, boat’s we’d like to sail and then, most importantly, we shared our dreams.

Dreams are fragile things, but speaking them out loud can give them power. The problem comes in choosing who to reveal them to. To say, I dream of seeing this particular island and this particular harbor and I plan to get there under my own power, by my own hand and with my own skills- is a dream that’s easy to have but hard to make real. And to share such a dream with someone who doesn’t really understand can take away the magic it needs to thrive.

We met R a few more times. He was always smiling and always ready to share a story and his dreams – to visit Îles-de-la-Madeleine, to convert to the dark side on his next boat and get a fast Trimaran. We tossed around ideas and plans – I jokingly referred to him as our single legged, single-handing friend – in reference to his prosthetic leg. The last time we saw him was in Smuggler’s Cove - he looked tanned and happy and told us his plans to visit the Gulf Islands before putting his boat to bed for the winter then trucking it east.

“Mayday this is the vessel E I’m taking on water and abandoning to my dingy.”

R’s voice was breathless, but unmistakably his. We listened as the Coast Guard asked his position and then plotted his latitude and longitude on the chart we had in front of us. We discovered we were once again crossing paths, but weren’t close enough to help.

We’d been in this position before, listening as fellow cruisers lost their boat. There’s a helplessness to it and the sick, morbid fascination of being voyeurs. But there’s more to it than that – there’s a vulnerability and a desire for answers. As the drama unfolded I felt a need to know how a boat could sink on a calm day in semi-sheltered waters – as though somehow by having that answer I could save myself from that fate. And there was the pain of knowing someone’s lovingly cultivated, painstakingly realized dream was sinking before his eyes.

We listened for achingly long minutes as vessels reported their progress as they sped to his position. Then we listened to his rescue unfold, the news he was safe. We heard that he told his rescuers that E had been holed by something he couldn’t identify and out of fear he could be trapped with only one good leg he had abandoned her without trying to repair the damage.

Then came the words that made the story lose shape. It seemed he was refusing to let the navy personal, who had fished him and his dingy out of the low grey swell, go aboard his boat and try and save it. He said there were three holes and it was unsafe. Then the police boat was on site, reporting that R was physically ok but agitated by the attempts to save his boat. As salvage pumps emptied the water out of the boat's hull, and brought her back from her plunge, the police reported they were, “looking at the criminal aspects.”

Dreams are fragile things. They can be buffeted and broken by personal storms you didn’t know were brewing. They can drift away. They can sink into low grey swell when help comes sooner than planned but later than when it's really needed.

We saw the boat towed into the dock a few hours later. When we went over we found R slowly unpacking the boat's sodden lockers, looking weary but unharmed. The boat was whole and floating, she had a few new scratches but nothing that resembled holes. We talked about how to dry out a half sunken boat and how save a drowned motor but we were careful not to ask how the boat had gone down and R was careful not to tell us that part of the story. He was subdued, his bright smile and easy laugh were absent, but in an off guard moment a dream slipped through. "E still has miles in her," he told us. 

They’d carry on.