Vern The Author
it really wasn’t a marina, in the truest sense of the word. it was actually six slips across the front of a restored office building. there, sandwiched between the sewage treatment plan and the navy communications lab, sat six boats, each as different from the others as their respective owners were different from each other. ‘single’ Bob with his 400 horsepower floating bachelor pad. Calvin had taken on a lifetime project, restoring a 46-foot excursion boat originally built in 1913. Ken, the owner of the marina, was preparing his 54-foot sloop for the Bermuda race. ‘My Way’ Bob used his sailboat as a weekend getaway from his high-stress job as a construction contractor. no one really knew much about the owner of the 35-foot wooden sailboat, a real beauty in its heyday, but now desperately in need of some TLC. and the two of us, having quit our jobs, sold our house and bought a boat, were embarking on a four year mid-life crisis cruise to heaven knows where. for too long we had said, “someday we’re just going to chuck it all and go cruising.” for better, or for worse, we had decided to pursue that dream.
Ben and Corky were old-time New Londoner’s, now retired, living life as snow birds. they had sold their 50-foot wooden Chris Craft, but still came north in their motor home to spend time with friends. the familiar faces at the marina made it as good a place to park the ‘land yacht’ as any other. Ben and Corky’s soon became the place to congregate at the end of each day, where we would all swap lies, munch hors d’oeuvres, and sip the obligatory ‘sundowner’. occasionally, the subject of the lovely, but neglected, sailboat at the end of the dock would come up. no one seemed to know who owned it, but we all agreed that it was a real shame to watch its decline.
six weeks into our pre-departure routine, the do-list was down from eight pages to two, but we were still behind. we wanted to be gone by now. working from first light to sunset, often skipping our nightly confab, I had doubled my efforts to finish the remaining items. the floorboards from our boat were spread the entire length of the dock. each day, I would meticulously sand and varnish each one and then move them into the shed so the varnish could cure without the finish being marred by the nightly dew. coat after coat, for more than a week, this ritual had gone on.
as occurs in all marinas, when work is being done on a boat, a regular parade of folks will congregate about the work at hand, some admiring, some offering advice, others just checking the daily progress. i was in a hurry to finish all of the projects, and sometimes resented the amount of time it took to accommodate and respond to every comment or suggestion. an older gentleman, about 75, would sometimes stop by, look for a minute, and then stroll to the end of the dock near the dilapidated sailboat and just gaze out at the river, not appearing to be focusing on any specific activity or object. just gazing. during one of the two-minute breaks that I allowed myself periodically throughout the day, I encountered him at the end of the dock. I nodded to him in recognition and made a small comment about how sad it was to see the lovely old boat next to us just wasting away. to my surprise, he said,
“i’m thinkin’ about gettin’ around to takin’ a look at doin’ some work on her.” i realized that I had never heard the man speak before, nor had I known that he was the owner of this boat.
feeling sorry for the boat and the old man, I immediately offered to put aside my own chores to help him clean and seal the decks and bail out the cockpit, thereby staving off further decline of a once proud vessel. i suggested that, if we started early, we could probably finish it in one day. he turned to me and asked how long I had been out cruising. i replied that we had just left chicago six weeks earlier and were in the process of getting everything ready and…..he cut me off by saying, “i thought so. i didn’t think you fully understood what i said. i said ‘i was thinkin’ about gettin’ around to takin’ a look at doin’ some work on her.’ if i ever get past the ‘thinkin’ about, and get past the ‘gettin’ around to’, and eventually get to the ‘takin’ a look at’, i’ll give you a call. mind you, that doesn’t mean i’ll ever actually do any of the work, but i’ll be a lot closer than i am now. after you’ve been out a little longer, you’ll understand.”
i was absolutely dumbfounded. i just stared at the old man, my mouth still open from the last word i had uttered before he cut me off. i couldn’t speak. not because I couldn’t formulate a response, but because a sudden realization had hit me. a great revelation. six weeks worth of mindless thoughts which had wandered through my head as I worked, completely disconnected, now came together to answer a mystery which had previously baffled me. a huge smile replaced my gaping mouth. i thanked the old man profusely and walked back toward the floorboards, which were sitting on the dock waiting for another coat of varnish. and i just kept walking, right past them. i climbed over the lifelines, down the companionway, and into the forepeak, where we had stashed a bunch of ‘somedays’; things we had hurriedly put on board in case we ran out of better things to do. i pulled out a copy of ‘Moby Dick’, laid down on the starboard bunk, and opened to the first page. “Call me Ishmael.”
my wife was nudging me. i opened my eyes. in the fading light, I could see the book was still open to page 1. “isn’t it time to move the floorboards into the shed?” she asked. i looked out at the sea of teak stretching down the dock. “they’ll still be there tomorrow. six coats of varnish is plenty, and besides, it’s time to go up to Ben and Corky’s.”
a man I didn’t know was able to sum up in one sentence where the whole shelf of sailing books we carried had failed – the complete essence of why we long to ‘chuck it all and go cruising’. it’s not so much that every day we get to choose what we want to do, we also get to choose when we want to do it. though his boat hadn’t moved from her slip for many years, this unassuming old man has been ‘out cruising’ every day.
About the Author
Vern and Kathleen Carlson cruised and lived aboard their 38’ Cheoy Lee for 3 ½ years. Their travels took them along the Eastern seaboard, as far north as Nova Scotia and south to St. Lucia, including the Bahamas, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands; to the British Isles, Europe and Scandinavia. Vern writes from their experiences on this incredible journey. (See ‘Passage Notes’ Cruising World, January 1993)
