[FONT="]We all know the dream, white sand, turquoise water, women for whom dressing up means putting on the bikini top, little umbrellas on drinks. I had it too, way back when I committed myself to a life with boats. Who knows what useful and noble things I might have done if not so naïve as to have believed that becoming a yacht designer would get me there.
The dream isn’t really dead. I still haven’t been to the Caribbean, or even the Bahamas. I would like to sail there and I suppose it even makes my bucket list. It just doesn’t impel me though. Every choice has its price and I don’t think I would give up the things I am leaving, do all this fiberglass work, and spend all this money to go south.
Something I can’t fully explain draws me irresistibly north and east. I know that it’s a lot more real than the dream because it grows out of the way the brain rewires itself in accordance with the response of pleasure centers to various stimuli. It’s the memory of how a bold cliff looks when it transitions from a vague loom in the fog into a tall and fir fringed wall with the ground swell breaking at it’s base. When I dream on dark winter days of the previous season’s sailing, I remember less the sunlight and vistas of blue sky. No, what makes me look forward are memories like broad reaching at over six knots in lumpy seas between Petit Manan and the bell, alone, visibility just a few boat lengths, the pot buoys appearing suddenly on the top of the sea just ahead, trying to keep track of the buoy and toggle pairs while watching the radar and talking on the radio to the power boat coming around the other way.
Woman on the foredeck lying languidly as heat soaks into her bare breasts. Boat slipping easily towards beach bonfires and rum. What’s wrong with me anyway? I don’t know but the feeling of descending into air warmed by the cabin heater as a last bit of breath fog puffs out in front of the dying sliver of sun under a deep, clear, red sky is every bit as sensual in its way. I’ll take that woman warming up chilly bedclothes in the forepeak.
I will be going south however. If Octobers were Februarys along the coast of Maine and Nova Scotia, I probably would never leave. I like the wild places, looking out and not seeing a single electric light or hearing a man made sound except for the ticking of my clock. After spending every one of my sixty winters in the Northeast however, I’m determined never to do it again. I’ve also reached the age where only sailing year round is going to keep me in condition to do as much cruising as I still want to do in this life.
Since I’ve got to go south, I plan to make the most of it. Even though it’s not a goal and objective in the same way that Newfoundland is, I’ve always wanted to do the ICW. I want to stand on the dock in Key West and look out at my boat and give myself the mental Tee shirt for having sailed the entire East Coast. That’s the only reason I want to go to Key West. I’ve been there.
The Bahamas are certainly in the future. Who knows? I might even like it. After all, I’m the private pilot who was never going to sail again.
[/FONT]
The dream isn’t really dead. I still haven’t been to the Caribbean, or even the Bahamas. I would like to sail there and I suppose it even makes my bucket list. It just doesn’t impel me though. Every choice has its price and I don’t think I would give up the things I am leaving, do all this fiberglass work, and spend all this money to go south.
Something I can’t fully explain draws me irresistibly north and east. I know that it’s a lot more real than the dream because it grows out of the way the brain rewires itself in accordance with the response of pleasure centers to various stimuli. It’s the memory of how a bold cliff looks when it transitions from a vague loom in the fog into a tall and fir fringed wall with the ground swell breaking at it’s base. When I dream on dark winter days of the previous season’s sailing, I remember less the sunlight and vistas of blue sky. No, what makes me look forward are memories like broad reaching at over six knots in lumpy seas between Petit Manan and the bell, alone, visibility just a few boat lengths, the pot buoys appearing suddenly on the top of the sea just ahead, trying to keep track of the buoy and toggle pairs while watching the radar and talking on the radio to the power boat coming around the other way.
Woman on the foredeck lying languidly as heat soaks into her bare breasts. Boat slipping easily towards beach bonfires and rum. What’s wrong with me anyway? I don’t know but the feeling of descending into air warmed by the cabin heater as a last bit of breath fog puffs out in front of the dying sliver of sun under a deep, clear, red sky is every bit as sensual in its way. I’ll take that woman warming up chilly bedclothes in the forepeak.
I will be going south however. If Octobers were Februarys along the coast of Maine and Nova Scotia, I probably would never leave. I like the wild places, looking out and not seeing a single electric light or hearing a man made sound except for the ticking of my clock. After spending every one of my sixty winters in the Northeast however, I’m determined never to do it again. I’ve also reached the age where only sailing year round is going to keep me in condition to do as much cruising as I still want to do in this life.
Since I’ve got to go south, I plan to make the most of it. Even though it’s not a goal and objective in the same way that Newfoundland is, I’ve always wanted to do the ICW. I want to stand on the dock in Key West and look out at my boat and give myself the mental Tee shirt for having sailed the entire East Coast. That’s the only reason I want to go to Key West. I’ve been there.
The Bahamas are certainly in the future. Who knows? I might even like it. After all, I’m the private pilot who was never going to sail again.
[/FONT]
Last edited: