Discovery of Sail Archives - Page 2 of 3

At night with the Celtic Sea & the RNLI…

By: Noah D.

If you spend any time in marinas, ports, and coastal towns in the British Isles, there’s an acronym that seems to be everywhere. Literally. Go in any gas station, cafe, pub, ferry terminal, etc, and you’ll see something about the RNLI somewhere.

For my American readership – or those who are only familiar with the militarized USCG – it might come as a surprise that the RNLI is actually run as a not-for-profit charity. It is an NGO. Even more astounding to me is the fact that most of these guys are un-paid, but highly skilled, volunteers. Seeing them in action first-hand and then finding out that they’re doing it basically for free is truly amazing.

The Conditions

We headed out of Falmouth early on Monday morning. Just before 6am, actually. In England this time of year, that means two hours before dawn. Our weather window was a solid 48 hours and we were projected to arrive in Cork around 5pm the following day if we maintained a moderate speed. But the Atlantic fronts that were coming in were not expected to be overly strong, just a jump from 15kts to maybe 25kts of wind: certainly nothing that a reef in the main wouldn’t take care of. Well… as we rounded Lands End just before dark (4:30pm) and headed northwest toward Cork, Ireland, the wind shifted… to the northwest. This meant beating a due north course for a while in the deep darkness of the Bristol Channel.

This wasn’t that bad, either. The tides were with us and we were clocking an easy 6+kts in 15kts of air with precautionary reefs in the main and jib. I don’t think we saw 20kts flash on the anemometer the whole night and the seas were slight although with a normal North Atlantic swell. Add this with the VHF forecasts from the MET Office every three hours forecasting Force 4 to 5 that would be shifting from north-northwest toward the west and to the west-southwest… this was backed up by PassageWeather (checked via phone before we lost 3G service off Lands End). So, everything was looking good for our landfall.

Well… the winds only shifted around dawn and by that point we were quite far off our rhumb line. But they did shift! And we made straight for our destination on an easy, fast, port tack. There were a few moments we were hauling along over 7kts over the ground. We felt good! Tired, but good!

Around this time, we were out of range of the VHF aerials. We could hear the high-power HM Coast Guard announcements for the weather, but when we switched to the proper channel, the actual broadcast was too weak to make any sense. No matter… the forecasts all had been fine.

By the time we were in range of the Irish CG weather broadcasts, there was a Wind Warning and Small-craft Advisory in effect. This meant that there had been a new update superseding the previous mild conditions and moving up the bad weather almost a full six hours. Dark fell and we were at two reefs still pounding upwind and against the waves (but still making well over 5kts). We were less than 50 miles offshore and we decided to turn downwind and make for the closest coast. With the main down and flying a tiny scrap of headsail, we blew down wind and kept up with the building waves. We headed as close as we dared to quarter the following seas and the wind coming out of the west.

I was manually steering of course because no autopilot can handle stuff like that. So Lynn was reading aloud from the Reeds Almanac for a place to go. Around 20 miles offshore – also past 2200 hours – we attempted calling a marina before it got too late to see if we could reach a harbourmaster. When we called Kilmore Quay, the harbourmaster did not answer, but fishing vessel Mary Catherine broke in: “Nobody is there this time of night, but if you’ll go to Channel 12, I might could help you.”

Again, I’m steering, and Lynn talked to F/V Mary Catherine on the VHF for a little while to find out information about the area and see what we could do about shelter. One of his suggestions was to call the Kilmore Quay lifeboat station and see what they recommend. Until now, I had only thought that the lifeboat was literally that: a boat to save lives. And, we certainly were not entering “life threatening” status yet. But, with an uncertain (but low-er) amount of fuel and still almost 3 hours off the coast, motoring upwind, into the current, and against the waves was a dubious prospect. We still bombed along at more than 7kts with barely any sail up.

It was about this time that I calculated that we were probably going to miss the southeastern tip of Ireland. Which would have put us many many more hours at sea before landing somewhere in Wales. If we passed around Tuskar Rock, there might be a chance of the seas calming down enough for us to motor upwind into Rosslare or Wexford, but still… it was a chance.

So, call the lifeboat station, we did. Of course, the Rosslare Coast Guard talked to us for a little while, and dispatched the lifeboat to see what assistance they could provide. By that point, the seas were ridiculous and the wind gusts were flashing 40kts… 42kts… Finally, instead of trying to transfer any fuel over to us, the decision was made to simply tow us the rest of the way in to Kilmore Quay. And, out they came. Like something from a movie, this massive powerboat, lit with millions of candlepower spotlights, came barreling out of the 4-5 meter seas as a tank might growl over rolling hills. They threw over a tow rope as big around as your forearm and drug all 24,000lbs of Proteus through Force 8-9 winds and huge waves the two hours to safety. In fact, it was like we weren’t even there: they pulled us at over 6kts for two hours as we held on for quite a wild ride. Not one I would ever want to take again, mind you.

Now, sitting here at Kilmore Quay, we are fine. Proteus is fine (although a little shaken up, literally and figuratively). Some people say: “Respect the sea.” And, prior to this, I would have said: “Yes, I do respect the sea!” But that’s akin to reading all about travel and foreign lands without ever having set foot on a plane.

I tell you now: we sailors of Proteus, we respect the sea. I’ve lived near and on water my entire life, but no movies or books or photographs can tell you what it is really about out there. And, secondly, we respect the first-responders – the men of RNLI lifeboat 16-18 – that came out to make sure we made it into their harbour safely.

The Aftermath

So, you may wonder, how “at risk” were we really…

To be completely honest, any offshore passage like this is a risk. However, a powerful and well-equipped sailing vessel like Proteus cuts down those risks significantly. And – not meaning to sound at all prideful – but we took precautions a long time ago in our sailing studies and research that assisted us in heavy-weather sailing like what we experienced on the Celtic Sea: there is no substitute for knowing what to do in particular situations.

But, most importantly, we had the assistance of F/V Mary Catherine at first, then the Rosslare CG, and finally the guys at RNLI Kilmore Quay to come fill in the gaps to make sure that we never were classified as a “vessel in distress.”

Proteus never took on water (except into the cockpit) and never suffered a knockdown, but the situations were such that the RNLI weren’t just making a milk run. Talking to the guys later at 3am tea, one of the lifeboat crew told me: “We’ve all been there.” Perhaps he was just being gracious, but if I’m taking steps to someday be as capable and as good of a seaman as the crew of the 16-18 by going through a Fastnet gale, I’m almost glad it all happened the way it did.

But… if it is up to me? Never again.

Could we have done anything differently? I’m actually not sure. Talking to a few people and analyzing the situation, it was a case of a winter North Atlantic frontal system doing its normal thing and saying: “Haha! You think you can predict me!? Gotcha!!” Had we kept significant spare fuel on board, I might have felt better about powerboating upwind and upwaves into such conditions. If we continued to live in the high-latitudes – which we have no intention of doing – we could have done well with a storm trysail and a storm jib. I feel fairly confident that the added stability of forward motion would have contributed to our comfort on board. Another option would have been to heave-to and wait it out. But by that point, the main was down and putting up a double-reefed main in those conditions would have been foolhardy.

A New Chapter Begins

We are young at this. I’ve been sailing more than a decade and this was my first true test of serious gale conditions. Even after 700 miles of sucky English winter weather, this ratcheted up the playing field considerably. However, the inexperienced become experienced through experience: not by reading books or by sitting at the quayside. Next time, it might be 800 miles offshore instead of a mere 12. The things we learned in this gale will keep us safe and make the difference when no lifeboats are on hand.

Our original destination was Cork, Ireland, to keep the boat over Christmas and the “worst of the winter weather” as we prepare for our Big Trip this spring. As luck would have it, I suppose, we could not have landed in a better place. Kilmore Quay has a relatively small marina, but it is a true, old-school, maritime village. It has everything that we need. So, this will be our base until we head south in the spring.

Lynn and I look forward to seeing flowers bloom and heading back toward the sun again. For that, stay tuned…

Final days before entering the largest pond…

By: Noah D.

Four more days.

I suppose, other than the constant days out sailing in all manner of conditions, it does not feel like we’re about to leave for a 700 mile trip to Ireland on Sunday. We’re getting tons of work done on the boat, making a few minor upgrades (like a super-high volume bilge pump) and getting things serviced (like our life raft). But we would be completely remiss if we didn’t attempt to keep our home feeling like a home.

Lynn has gotten Proteus into the holiday spirit by decking us out with some lights and our Christmas decorations (sans tree). She has said regularly that this boat is our home and it should look like we live here. There is nothing stark or sterile about it. It is lived in. And loved. And loved in.

But, finally, the first leg of our trip to the USA is coming up fast. And part of that process from the beginning has been getting “certified.” You might have seen it on the Twitter if you’re following us there, but I got my International Certificate of Competence from the RYA. It required a day of hanging out with our new friend Mick Meadows from East Anglian Sea School and running dozens of practical and theory exams.

Lynn says that she is not nervous about the coming passage. She says that she doesn’t know why she should be nervous. All the things we have done over the past few months have been driving toward the beginning of this trip. And it is here. I’m only nervous – maybe “nervous” isn’t the right word at all, though – because it is the beginning of something that I have dreamt of doing for as many years as I can remember. We are examples of setting your mind to something, surrounding yourself with good friends and good family to help you on your way, and then actually going and doing what you say you’re going to.

It is all about the doing.

I had never touched a sailboat before I bought my first tiny dinghy for a couple hundred dollars: a 12 foot sloop rigged Alcort Puffer. The old harbor master (Ernie) at Browns Creek Sailing Marina in Guntersville, Alabama, helped me set it up for the first time and get it into the water. Then, with me sitting in the boat and him standing on the dock, he briefly said things like, “Put this here… do this… hold that… do this when this happens and when this happens do this…” Ernie then shoved me off the dock and walked away, and that’s where my life sailing began.

Now we are about to kick ourselves off a dock in England and sail across an ocean that was once considered to be the end of the known world less than a millennia years ago. The scale of Ernie’s impromptu, “Put this here… do this when this happens and when this happens do this…” has multiplied immensely. Such is the nature of all life, is it not, and the evolution in the life of man? All start in a small pond – perhaps even a puddle – then move down the stream into the lake, then onward, each time looking at the next body of water as being a million miles wide and almost as deep. This time, though, we and Proteus are entering the realm of the largest pond: a realm in which even the biggest fish cannot fathom its vastness. We sense the presence of this next step drawing near. And this Sunday, after one year, two months, and 15 days in England, we will be kicking off the dock with as little pomp and circumstance as we arrived, and setting off to sail home in the west, somewhere beyond the end of the earth.

To see what happens next, I hope you’ll stay tuned…

The better direction planning…

By: Noah D.

“If everyone’s worst problem was thrown into a pile together, you might have trouble getting yours back.” ~my mother

So long ago that I can’t even find it, I wrote an article about plans. The gist of it was that, if I had done exactly what I intended to do with my life immediately after graduating high school, I would have been letting myself down. I could have never expected what I’ve done at my mere 28 years of age.

Now… …over the past few months, and in an uncharacteristically forward thinking act, Lynn and I have been developing a plan for the next few years. Let’s call it “The Three Year Plan.” This plan included staying in England for Lynn to finish her degree. This would allow us to both get visas that would expire in approximately three years (end of 2017). She would go to school; I would work. We would sail and live on Proteus during this time, save money, and get ready for the moment when we would sail away at the end of our “England Years” and spend a little time (or a lot) doing some serious cruising.

As of now, all that little plan is breaking down. Proteus is fine. We are fine. But my visa is not.

Essentially, a relatively obscure fine print in the vast tome that is the UK Immigration Law is preventing me from getting a visa with Lynn. She can get a visa. I cannot. She can stay until 2017. I cannot. But, in her words, “I don’t care where it is. Where you go… I go.” There is a chance that I could sue to remain with her; however, the success of such a thing in such a legalistic society is quite remote. Pleading with a judge based on “…but, we want to be together because… love!” only works in Disney movies, not immigration court. These appeals also take a long time to go through. There’s a slightly higher chance that I’ll meet a miracle man (or woman) and someone will hire me, qualifying me for a different type of visa that is separate from Lynn’s. These other visas are based, by and large, on qualifications and the amount of money you make in the job that someone promises you.

But these chances are exactly that – chances – and we must prepare for contingencies. All things change for those who wait.

A new direction…

The foundation of the Original Plan – of which Proteus is a major part – is still solid. More than solid, actually. The unforeseen visa dilemma, though, has gutted the middle part of the plan. Like the long Tetris piece perfectly fitting to complete and vaporize a whole four-row section all at once, the “three year” part of this plan has vanished and everything above it has fallen to meet the base. Sailing away from England in the Winter is becoming a distinct reality.

Not only a distinct reality, but a matter of days away. Over the past few weeks, we have fully moved our entire existence into Proteus. As recently as yesterday, even, I closed out our small storage unit and got rid of the final few items that could not fit in the boat. In a few days, the final few things tying us to the UK will dissolve and we will be a little island of our own. The first week of December, we will be sailing Proteus out of the UK and into a non-British country (Ireland) before Christmas. After Christmas, we will begin our trek home… and that is where things get exciting.

Sailing plans are normally written in sand, as the old saying goes, but we have established a tentative schedule. For now, the end of our route is definitely a return to Haiti, the uber-beautiful Ile-a-Vache. We should be there sometime in late-Spring. And then – eventually – we will see what we find after that point. We’ll likely find jobs doing something and Lynn will finish her year or so of school…

…and then… I suppose there are no limits to where we could go. I feel as though we are entering the serendipitous realms of such storytelling sailors as World Tour Stories (who just had a similar abrupt change of plans), White Spot Pirates, Matt & Jessica (also changing plans), Delos, and so many others. We rather aspire to similar good fortune in their travels.

And finally, it must be said, when all this stuff started going down, Lynn and I discussed having two bedrock-solid factors in our lives: each other… and our Proteus. I hope you’ll stay tuned… because there’s absolutely no way of knowing what is coming up next.

“Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.”
~Dalai Lama

Out and about (sailing) on the Orwell River…

By: Noah D.

Now that our time in England is winding down, Lynn and I are spending most of our time on Proteus. And, every chance we get we are going out of the Prince Philip Lock and onto the River Orwell.

And today was the best yet. Not only did we really get to put the giant genoa up for the first time – the previous trip was motor only because the furling equipment wasn’t 100% put together yet – but the day was just beautiful. The previous day (Halloween) was one of the warmest on record for the UK. And a brilliant sky. It continued into today…

The above photo is colored a little weird because it was shot through the heavily-tinted skylights. But it gets the point across how enormous the headsail is.

And, no, we didn’t put the main up yesterday because we are sorting some technical issues out with the stack-pack sail bag. Even so, with only the genoa up, we were pulling at 5kts in just over 10kts air. I was quite surprised, actually. It was pushing us much faster than some of the 20ft-30ft boats out on the river, too.

But, it is not about the speed. It is just about getting out on the water and spending time with the boat. We’d be out again today, but I’m sitting watching the rain fall onto those same skylights. Proteus keeps us dry and warm.

Stay tuned…

In the water at last: Proteus relaunching…

By: Noah D.

Proteus has now been in the water a full two days. Finally.

No joke, I’m sitting here at the salon table trying to work and I’m being gently rocked to sleep. The lines are creaking. The wind is whistling lightly. Yeah… two days.

We’ve been living in treehouse mode for about two weeks prior to our launch a couple of days ago. And for that time, we’ve had all the usual amenities on shore power except for the air conditioner (which we use in reverse cycle for heat and dehumidification) and normally flushing toilets. Oh, and it feels just like a treehouse: climbing up a ladder and a 15ft drop to the ground from the deck.

All things considered, though, it was a relatively nice way to move in. It made everything fairly convenient (except the climbing the ladder thing) and we both got a taste of what it was like before we had to worry about all the other things like keeping the boat tied to the dock and making sure it doesn’t sink.

The Relaunch

The relaunch, though, was one of the more bizarre things I’ve seen in a while. It isn’t that I’ve never seen huge boats being driven around by marina hoists – I grew up around this stuff – it is just that I’ve never seen MY boat being driven around by marina hoists. Any boats previously have just been large enough to drive around on a trailer and just back down into the water in a slipway. Alas, no more. It is on the scale of a minor industrial operation to move this boat.

All of Lynn’s and my “stuff” was being carried around and then dropped into the water.

But Proteus handled it as if it was no big deal. Just another day at the office for her.

Wow, now that’s a game face…

Coming into the berth for the first time.

Interestingly enough, with both water tanks full (150 gallons) and a full tank of diesel, Proteus still sits a few inches above her waterline. It is kind of nice to know, actually! Literally everything we own is in the boat and its cumulative weight (plus the two of us) doesn’t make much of a difference.

I’m interested to see what happens when we load up for a jaunt across the oceans.

A Little Jaunt

Proteus relaunching was such an exciting thing to witness, but simply floating is not the purpose of a boat. Without so much as a stitch of sail on the pole – it was only about 4-6kts of wind yesterday, anyway – we went a couple of hours down the river here and back to our berth. We called the Prince Philip Lock controller on Channel 68 and out we went!

One thing we found out about Proteus‘ cockpit dodger is that the front screen is a little difficult to see through. At times. It isn’t fogged at all, it is just a little glare-y and wrinkled. It would not be a problem if we were not looking for buoys. In the middle of the ocean, it probably will be just fine. That being said, my first major purchase or physical modification might be a hard dodger/windscreen.

That’s about it, though. I suppose the most exciting visual is the huge Orwell River Bridge. And some waterfowl. We went about halfway down the river to 52ºN and turned back, ahead of the rain. A total of 9 miles. I hope you’ll stay tuned for when we hit double digits. And triple digits. And quadruple digits. It won’t be long.

Stay tuned…

Moving aboard…

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By: Noah D.

Pardon the lack of posts these days, but… we’ve been finally moving things aboard Proteus.

Honestly, I’m being better about posting to Twitter (@sailelement). And much of it I blame on the lack of stable internet for the moment… but that shall be rectified soon. Now a few nights in and we’re getting settled.

The exciting part is that everything will have its place. Finally. And if it doesn’t have a place, it doesn’t stay. It is starting to be an effective purging device for “extra stuff.” Moving aboard should be a liberating process, I think.

The shame of it is that we were expecting to put Proteus into the water this week, but due to the annual maintenance of the marina hoist, we have to wait a bit longer. Maybe a couple of days? I’m not complaining, though: when lifting 24,000lbs I really want the lift to work.

Otherwise… even though we are a few more days as a treehouse, it will allow for a few more projects to get done before the splash. For that, stay tuned…

A festival of tall ships…

By: Noah D.

While we’re still not fully moved on board (for paperwork reasons) we are taking every opportunity to be around boats. In London – especially in the late summer – this is not hard.

Even more so, the Totally Thames festival is going on. And, to kick it off, they’ve got the Royal Greenwich Tall Ships Festival in the east.

Basically, its a couple dozen huge sailboats that raft up, sail around, and hang out all weekend. Yeah, its a bit nerdy. I make no apologies.

But, at the end of the walk, we found grass that Lynn is sure was imported from The Shire. Or possibly it fell down from heaven. Or maybe it is because we have been living in London too long and good grass is hard to come by.

Anyway, not to get sidetracked by awesome grass, but we weren’t the only ones…

We spent the rest of the evening at The Yacht pub down at Maritime Greenwich. If you’re in the area and just want to sit and watch the river (or tall ships) go by, I fully recommend it.

What day by the Thames would be complete without a walk on the “beach”?

The old Naval college is cool, right? Since it survived the alien invasion, thanks to Thor…

Now, I am a little disappointed to miss the Southampton boat show this year. I’ve got some family stuff to attend to in the USA. It starts next weekend and runs almost exactly the duration of my time away. But there’s always next year. Maybe we’ll just sail on down… 🙂

What is in a boat name…?

By: Noah D.

“I think the act of naming something implies, very simply, that you’re not alone. We give names to things so we can talk about them. Once there’s a word for an experience, it feels contained somehow—and the container has a handle, which makes it much easier to pick up and pass around.”
~John Koenig (from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

The closest I’ve ever been to naming a child was when my sister named her cat. But that did not take too much deliberation, because she had been settled on ‘Dinah’ forever.

But naming something is a significant moment. It becomes the weird, specific sound that comes out of someone’s mouth that someone else hears and connects a brain spark to a real, physical thing in the world. Or it is the little particularly-arranged little squiggles on paper that cause a person to see a massive “other thing” somewhere else. In the case of a dog or a cat, it is something you’ll yell out the back door. In the case of a human, names can set a kid up for bullying or to become the next power player. In the case of a boat, it can either make people raise an eyebrow in curiosity, in indifference, or in commiseration.

I’m fascinated by Plato’s concept of Forms. I had a comparative religious philosophy professor simplify it to a simple (but very Socratic) question: “At what point does a table cease to be a table?” At some point, you will no longer consider a table-like object a table. Maybe it would be too small and be a stool. Maybe it would be too large or have solid sides and become a desk or a counter-top. But whatever you think of as “table-ness” is in your mind somewhere with boundaries (even if they are rather blurry at times).

Naming a boat takes on a slightly different slant. It is already a boat, of course; but when a boat gets a name, it then becomes what everyone else sees even when you (as the owner/skipper/master/captain) are not present. (And, when you are present, you get grouped in by your boat first and the people who are on it only if they know you personally: “Oh, that’s John and Jane of the _______!”) Far be it for anyone to judge, but you must admit, if you have spent any time around any marinas anywhere in the world you will likely see more than one boat with a truly ridiculous name.

So, Lynn and I have settled on a name. If you’re reading this blog, you obviously know that Proteus is written all over the place for no other reason. I’ve been consternating my soul for some time now about it. I wrote long lists of names, hunted the internets, and called up all manner of references and descriptions to come to just the perfect name. Lynn came up with one: “Proteus.”

Before you think there was any strong-arming or argument involved, let me tell you who/what Proteus was. Proteus was a mythological deity of the sea, oceans, and great rivers. But, more than that, he was the shepherd of the sea creatures and keeper of the wisdom of earth. Kings and conquerors sought Proteus because he apparently was so wise that he could foretell the future. To evade his pursuers, he was known to shape-shift into any number of natural things. From this, the term “protean” is derived, with positive connotations of versatility, flexibility, and adaptability.

Of course, the name must be Proteus.

For our purposes, and the reason why it is such a great name for our boat, Proteus is an ideal to aspire to rather than some past conquest. We are expats and travelers, sailors and wanderers. We are choosing this strange life consciously, not because it is convenient or because we can easily afford it – neither actually – but because we aspire to more than just what is “standard” or “average.” We are not taking the path of least resistance or “settling down” into whatever whirlpool sucks us in. We say: “We want to see the world.” So we will go do whatever it takes to do that. The purchase of our boat put every coastline on the planet within reach.

To be completely honest, the previous name of the boat (seen in the banner above) was not horrible. “Oscar” was actually my grandfather’s name. But a number of factor’s precipitated our decision to change the name: one being that the former owners’ new boat’s name also is related to Oscar, and we just did not want to have two Oscars in the same marina. We will be going through the proper denaming/naming ceremony, of course, to stave off any bad superstitions that might hang around. And it is kinda fun to smash champaign onto hulls…

Finally, there are a number of mega-yachts and older vessels around named Proteus. There’s even this weird thing that everybody freaked about when it pounded around San Francisco Bay a few years ago: the original incarnation of the WAM-V was named Proteus. But we were hard-pressed to find many Proteus-es (Proteii?) out there in the registries. We know of one sailboat (a beautiful Oyster 655) sold a few years back, but her name may have been changed since then.

Basically, we just wanted something that, if the boat could speak, she wouldn’t be ashamed or mumble her name quietly when asked. Because we sure will be proud of her. If you look on BoatUS’s Top 10 Most Popular Boat Names list, you might see what I mean. There really are people in the world who spend tens of thousands of dollars on a boat and then paste “Aquaholic” to the hull. Seriously.

For further reading, there are a few more posts around the internet regarding naming boats, but two of the classics are Bumfuzzle’s “How to Name a Boat” post and John Vigor’s “How to Rename Your Boat” or “A Simple Denaming Ceremony” which may or may not have become standard reading for newcomers to the boat name world.

Stay tuned for the results of the ceremony…

We bought a boat…

By: Noah D.

And, with shocking simplicity, we made the purchase.

Literally, a decade of dreaming and research has led to this.

And, as we were on our way home, the question, “Are you happy?” was raised. My answer sounds like a fortune cookie: Happiness does not come from the things we own, but the way we put to use the things we own. Cats can be happy with a cardboard box because they know how to play in them. But humans can be miserable with multimillion dollar mansions.

Happiness is our own responsibility, not the responsibility of anyone else or the things with which we surround ourselves.

Here we are, 42 foot sailboat in hand, doing everything we can to live our lives in a way that we will look back on it and say, “Wow, that was a great thing.”

“Boat shopping” has a new meaning…

By: Noah D.

I had a nice huge blog post written up, but before I clicked “publish” I had an attack of superstition. Okay, yes yes, nautical things are rife with superstition and such, but something made me feel as though I should hold off on posting some of my thoughts until things are more concrete. I refuse to jinx it.

But, here’s the gist: There’s a certain boat for sale at a certain marina that makes me swoon. It has a few issues, but… like any good relationship, you have to be mature about things and take the good with the bad. Just like some people make awesome spouses even though they snore, I feel like this certain boat is a lovely lady even though she need a few pokes and prods occasionally to straighten out those kinks. All things considered, a project boat she is not.

Boat shopping has taken on a whole new meaning now that I might have just photographed “the one”…

Now, if you’re able to identify the boat from this photo alone, I applaud you. Otherwise, you’re just going to have to wait and see… 🙂