Going Dutch I grabbed the varnished ash tiller just behind the


Turk’s head knot. Gretha approved of me, quickened her pace and I was under her spell forever.


By Roger Kibble Even from afar her lines spoke


with authority. The morning glory of Southey point magnified the sheer of her hull, a gentle ripple kissed her stern, the breeze nudged her bow and the shore admired her grace. No squeezed dockside berth of a broker for Gretha, she was riding proudly, protected by the natural harbor. Kathie and I picked our way along


the shore rocks and looked down at that angle that presents boats at their best. But a casual glance might have missed her. Tar, grease and one deflated fender decorated her topsides, a faded


blue boom tent was flapping where a tie had parted, her stays were slack, seagulls had redecorated the cover and an oversized oil lamp more appropriate to a work boat hung aloft at an odd angle. A tall, varnished mast might have given an experienced eye some evidence of speed and past glory but the reality was a stubby brown painted round pole that looked more like a tree picked at random from a Salt Spring Island property. One of the reasons that had


persuaded us to move to BC was the prospect of glorious sailing funded


by less expensive housing and a more tranquil lifestyle. But inflation beat us to the West and the anticipated 28- foot Bristol Channel Cutter vanished into a larger mortgage and a frenetic work schedule. Now, three years later I was desperate to at least pay lip service to my sailing ambition. A classified advertisement had tweaked my curiosity and brought us to this northern most tip of Salt Spring Island.


There were quite a few boats


moored in the bay: an affluent Alberg 30 with gleaming bright work and oiled teak deck, a serious looking trimaran with massive self-steering gear, a magnificent Alden ketch from the US, an old Owens motor cruiser, a nondescript fiberglass boat with years of growth on its bottom and an aluminum vessel festooned with fishing equipment. But Gretha remained aloof, alone in her private world, twenty feet of perfection that possibly only we could see. The Gulf Islands Driftwood advertisement had read “20 foot gaff rig wooden sloop $1200.00”. I had envisioned a jaunty craft, the sort illustrated in children’s books wafting


“Gretha” with Aimee at the helm and Steven on the rail.


48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2010 PAGE 49


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