Here’s a ho-hum autumn sunset through the stand of deciduous trees in the southwest corner of our property – about the best we get of visible sunsets.
Our evergreens, many of them 50 and 60-year olds, are great for the year-round privacy we value; but they do deprive us of those unobstructed sunsets so everpresent in our sailing days. When you live aboard on the West Coast, you are often a part of the sunset. I do miss that.
Such is the nature of life – there are always trade-offs to be made.
These were my words to a former employer (the late Harold Johnson of Alaska Diesel Electric) who thought I might be afraid to be left alone in the building after dark. I was working late on a marketing project. He and I were the only two left in the building and he wanted to go home. He knew I could “lock-up” on my own, but he was an old-school gentleman who didn’t believe women should be left unguarded to fend for themselves. He did like the idea that I was willing to put in the extra time to finish the project, however. I assured him I was almost done and would be fine.
I’d been sailing for more than 10 years at that point. Harold laughed. He was also a boater.
What’s scary is always determined by life experience. Sailing on a small boat in a gale with big seas (especially overnight) is one of two pivotal experiences which have forever tempered my perception of “what’s scary.” (The other is years of riding as a passenger in motor vehicles driven by Griz – but I’ll save that for another post.)
You meet people who are rarely upset by external events – many of them middle-aged or older – but some younger ones, too. Those who have been through or seen a lot – soldiers, firefighters, cops – but also some “just ordinary” folk who have faced life-altering circumstances, grave injury or illness (or gone through it with a loved one.)
Experience is what makes the “small stuff” small.
Griz and I had a bronze plaque on S/V WaterBrother which read:
“A superior sailor is best defined as one who uses his superior judgement to keep out of situations requiring the use of his superior skills.”
(The plaque was actually given to us by my mother who worried a lot when we were sailing.) You try to heed those words; but it doesn’t matter how well you plan, experience comes along anyway. If you sail long enough, you get caught out in “weather.” Getting caught out is experience – on sea or on dry land.
Fred Roswold just posted a rewrite of a great storm story on his blog Wingssail including a comical explanation of why he and Judy wound up ”caught out.” These are the sailing tales that are much more fun to talk about later, rather than experience first hand.
“It was a rough morning but we did knock off the miles on that trip: In twenty four hours we’d covered 175 miles even against the southward flowing East Coast Current. Did we like it? During the day it was simply a fast ride we’d rather not be taking. At night it was dark, loud, and scary but we carried on, and didn’t turn in until Yamba. And no, we didn’t like it.”
I’m glad Fred rewrote the story. Fear “in perspective” is so much more appealing and philosophical than the “real-time” exhaustion, fortitude and stifled, blood-curdling screams that get you out alive.
Anyone who loves sailing or fantasizes about cruising to faraway places, should follow the blog of Fred Roswold and Judy Jensen Wingssail. Fred and Judy were neighbors when Griz
and I were living aboard at Seattle’s Shilshole Marina. Griz and I enjoyed the sailing lifestyle and became reasonably decent cruising sailors, but sailing for us was secondary to our pursuit of a life close to nature and away from people.
FRED AND JUDY ARE SAILOR’S SAILORS. In Seattle, they raced their Serendipity 43, Wings, weekly in all seasons. For the past 12 years they’ve been cruising the Pacific and still particpate in regattas wherever and whenever possible. Their blog not only has great photos, but Fred’s descriptive posts include good technical information, a realistic view of the vagaries of cruising on a budget (working along the way), and beautiful philosophical prose about his passion for sailing. This from his June 2 post:
“But even after a thousand times, 10,000 times, each day on the water is a thing special, a day important, a day which restores life into a sailor.
We must have it. Or we die. We die anyway.
But at least this way when we eventually come to our end we will have followed a compass of our own devising; the only compass which we know how to follow.”
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How Steve Stovner Became “Griz.” In the last post, I referred to my partner as “Griz.” To those of you who know me, don’t worry, there’s no new man in my life – it’s a nickname Steve likes and sometimes uses online and at poker. In this blog, I’ve decided to use the nickname to make it easier for [...]
