Farewell, Safari

10 a.m. Sunday morning the call came in. The boat is on the rocks. It took us awhile to find it, because it wasn’t where we expected it to be, given the wind direction. She was down, about two hours before an extreme high tide, with a 35 knot northeasterly blowing her further in among the rocks. Unable to reach her from the beach, a lee shore, we dashed off to arrange for a boat, to collect dive gear, to make a plan. I was in such a tither that I didn’t think to take a photo, but I now dearly wish I had, so we knew exactly where she lay when the call first came in and the tide was still rising.

11:30, the diver was underway, high tide due at 12:08. We were waiting for him to come by to get the crew when the harbormaster called again. It’s too late, she’s breaking up. We were stunned, and piled back into the car to dash off again, back to the beach. This is what we found:



Cancel the diver. Wait for low tide. Take it all in and try to fathom that a well cared for boat, a 40’ Alden ketch built in 1931, which had the same loving owner for the last 23 years, was no more.

Said she, upon viewing the remains: ‘Well, I guess now we don’t have to fix that leak in the stern.’

We spent the remainder of the day carting all we could above the tide line, separated into two separate piles, ‘salvage’, and ‘bonfire.’ When all the loose bits were picked up, the axes and chainsaw were put to use. Not an easy moment for a loving boat owner.



By the end of day two, this is all that was left:


That's the owner in the water. Those sticky up bits beside him are the remains of the keel.

By the end of day three, even the engine had been salvaged from the keel and dragged ashore, where we helped lift it into the bed of a truck.


By the end of the day tomorrow, there will be nothing left on the beach but the intact, undamaged masts. Arrangements are being made to float them around to be lifted out using the shipyard crane. The boat came ashore in front of some very large, very pristine homes, with perfectly manicured lawns that come right down to the beach, far from the main road. Getting in heavy equipment was not really an option. Everything that was accomplished so quickly and efficiently was done using a group of determined people, a few large pickup trucks and a trailer. Ideas of how to remove the keel, which is still underwater, and contains nearly 10,000 pounds of lead, are still being bandied about. I am in favor of running an ad in the back of Wooden Boat magazine that reads, ‘free lead, you pick up.’

Any other ideas are welcomed.
While we understand that there will be a period of mourning, we stand by to welcome the owner of Safari into the boatless club, when he is ready. Instead of spending long winter evenings contemplating the upgrades and repairs to be done to his boat come spring, he can join us in those long internet trolling sessions, seeking out the next perfect boat!

No Post

I have nothing to post at this time. While I hear the world has been rapidly sinking, so far my life has remained pleasantly afloat, perfect weather, perfect house, good company, car running nicely, and spending every spare moment struggling with a huge boat canvas project way beyond what I should have taken on, but I'm doing it anyway. And I might even be finished by Christmas so I can get back to posting!

Hodophobia

Of course there's even a name for the fear of roads.

We all have our phobias, which may or not be grounded in reality. Some people fear snakes even though they have never touched one, or been threatened with one. Some are afraid of dogs despite never having had a bad experience with any.

I have my phobias too. Babies terrify me. Men should be kept safely locked away on their own damn planet.

In my sailing life, people, read landlubbers, ask me all the time if I am afraid out there on the big ocean. My response is: are you not afraid of the interstate, driving 90 miles an hour surrounded by cars on all sides no further than two feet away all traveling at the same speed? Fear is a relative thing.

I had to laugh at myself traveling south on interstate 95 one night. It was very late, and there was construction around the exit for the George Washington Bridge. The way the barricades had been set up and the signs were hanging, I found myself channeled off the interstate and into New York City. Worse yet, I had been funneled into the Bronx, along that section of highway where if you get a flat tire, get out of your car, call your insurance agency and report a total loss, because bad assed dudes are going to be all over it within minutes, removing every bit they can pry off, including you if you don’t run like hell. This was the same area where one friend was changing a flat tire on his truck when someone came along and actually said “right, man, you get that tire and I’ll take this one.” Luckily my friend was 6’4”, and looked like a deadly biker dude. He pulled himself up to his full height, folded his arms and said in his deepest voice. “Dude, this is MY ride.” The stripper stepped back, put his hands out while backing away, and said “sorry, man, no problem”. Luckily the guy didn’t know my friend was a total pussycat who is against violence of any type. Another friend was driving through the same area when his old classic VW van did what they do best: quit running. He had just come back from sailing the Caribbean, and had collected a load of various items to sell in his Connecticut “odds & ends” shop. He was messing with the motor in the back of the van when he heard a noise up front. Someone was trying to pry out a headlight while at the same time trying to free the emblem from the grill. One of the items lying near the top of my friend’s collection was a machete. He grabbed it and went yelling like a maniac after the guy, who ran off screaming. Anyway, here I was, alone in my vehicle, on the streets of the Bronx, in the neighborhood where these things happened all the time, and I began to panic. I could see the interstate; the street I was on paralled it. I began to hyperventilate and freaked out about being over here and not there. And then I had the thought that if someone picked me up at that very second, and plopped me down on the deck of a small sailboat in a heavy sea, I wouldn’t be nearly so bothered. That thought made me laugh, and I began to notice that most of the other cars around me had out of state plates. We all had our heads craned to the left to keep our eyes on 95. Many others had fallen for the same dirty trick. We formed a procession as the lead car discovered a way to get back on the highway. The rest of us followed like sheep, glad for the safety in numbers. Whew. Safe at last, back on the interstate, speeding in a crowd of cars.

Yes, I get afraid at sea sometimes. I’d be stupid not to. But I get petrified on the highways all the time. And that only makes sense. But it doesn't stop me from thousands of miles of road trips!

Cheating

Today was Harborfest. A friend asked me to join him in the mixed doubles rowing races, and we each participated in the men's and women's competition using his dinghy. Well, there was competition in the men’s race, at least. Although my friend was last over the starting line, he was way out in the front of the pack when crossing the finish line. Back in the day, I could outrow everyone in the harbor, male or female. But having been boatless for a while, and a landlubber to boot, I had my doubts. No worries; I only had two other women to race against.

In the second half of the race, I got silly and started rowing slowly, leisurely, toying with the idea of rowing in cirles. But I decided that would be too insulting to my competition, whom I could almost make out way off in the distance. Since I came in miles ahead, I was annoyed all over again that we had been segregated by sex. Then came the mixed doubles. As we got to the start, we could see dinghies equipped with two people and four oars, something we were thought was not allowed. Long before this weekend, we had been told that we had to sit side by side and each take an oar. My friend and I had never rowed together. We never got around to scheduling practice time. We assumed that we'd be so mismatched and out of sync that we'd be rowing in circles. We thought that we would end up either laughing so hard that we'd be adrift while our competetors passed us coming and going, or we would be sitting there whacking each with oars.

We did start off in last place. And we did get giggly. But, as we made the turn, getting used to each other's strokes, so to speak, we pulled ahead. And by the time we crossed the finish line, we were all alone out front! Granted, there was one couple, using four oars, who would have beaten us easily, except for that pesky dock that jumped out in front of their dinghy and stopped them cold as they were speeding along! By the time they got going again, we were giggling our way past them.

We swept all three competitions oars down. We suspect that the dinghy won't be allowed in next year's races!

Kudos to my friend, who built the dinghy himself. A fine show of craftmanship, indeed.

Be it ever so humble

There's no place like home. Only the old, gray part on the left is mine. The rest is new construction and is only a shell inside that looks like this:

That's how come I can's afford the rent-it's discounted for me having to put up with all that banging and other electrical power tool noises.

Don't tell the landlords, but I find that racket rather comforting-sort of like being back in the boat yard among all the dreams in progress. I don't mind in the least. Everyone goes home around dark anyway, and this place is just so very awesome, a work of art. I love it here, and am even twisted enough to be looking forward to the winter! This weekend's project is to hook up the woodstove and eliminate any squirrels cohabitating in the chimney.

Should I be attacked by pirates during the rowing race at today's Harborfest, preventing wood stove attachment, I can always spend the winter in my new bathroom. The floor is heated, even in the shower!

All this, combined with wireless internet connection, Netflix coming to my door, and the supermarket delivery service, means that I can hibernate in comfort and style! Once it gets cold, I probably won't be out until spring!