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main sail tied snuggly to the boom, mainsheet run through the dusty- white weathered galvanized blocks; we were ready for sea trials. “Doesn’t she look great?” I asked, standing back, as much a prideful statement of fact as a question for my audience. The usual low morning overcast


was burning off and first cat’s paws of the regular afternoon sea breeze began ruffling the calm water in the marina; it was time to go. I unsteadily boarded my vessel, my dock crew cast off bow and stern, I sheeted in the main as the manual directed. As she began to heel, the sail literally exploded and blew to shreds in an instant. The boom fell on top of me with the clammy slack mainsheet hung round my neck like some malevolent snake. I threw the wet line to the bottom of the boat and drifted back to the dock looking like I had just survived a typhoon. The Harbor Master, who had


witnessed the disaster, slowly walked down from his office near the top of the ramp overlooking the docks and joined our group. After some sympathetic commiseration with my folks and me, and an affirmation of my commitment to learn to sail, he agreed to let me keep my boat in vacant slips for free with the understanding I would move her from time to time as the marina filled up. We pulled her up on the dock, turned her bottom up with her gear underneath and went home. The next day found me at the


marina’s chandlery, explaining to the clerk why I needed a new sail. “Yeah, I heard about that,” said the clerk, as he looked down to the floor. He cleared his throat, looked back up at me straight-faced and brusquely asked, “Bolt rope or slides?” His question led to an in-depth discussion of some of the finer points of dingy rigging and, as her mast was solid, slides it must be. I learned she also needed a sail track (and screws), a proper gooseneck for the boom (with a slide and more screws), a mast-head sheave (and a pin), a main halyard and cleat (and yet more screws). Total cost: $54.50, about all the money I had left in the world. It was now clear her rehabilitation would be much more expensive than I had ever imagined, but I placed the order without hesitation. The sail, of new Dacron and


as white as a bridal gown, arrived with the fittings the following week. With drill, screw driver and the encouragement of the Harbor Master, I set to work on her there on the dock. I loved just being around all of the other boats and worked slowly, bathed in the warmth of the early summer sun, the moist air suffused with the musky scent of salt and seaweed, listening to the occasional cries of the gulls gliding lazily overhead, and the creaks of the mooring lines as the wakes of passing vessels rolled through the occupied slips around me. I finished the work in a couple of days and was ready to try sailing again. To avoid the possibility of another


public humiliation, I conducted my next attempt alone. With my girl in the slip this time, I rigged the boat and, bow to the light morning breeze, and raised the main. It was then I discovered my home-made mast was three feet too short and the boom cleared the tiller and gunnels by a mere six inches. I sat down on the dock in despair and just stared at her, now the nautical runt of the litter.


The Harbor Master was watching


and, sensing my disappointment at this new setback, walked down to my slip from his office. “Looks like you’re going to need a taller mast”, he said, stating the obvious. “Still, I think she’ll work as she is.” So, there is hope after all, I thought. “Why don’t we take out the rear seat and you sail her sitting in the bilge?” The seat was only screwed in, and we had her out in a jiffy. I climbed back in, he cast off my bow line and pushed me back out of the slip. “Now pull the tiller toward you,”,he said, and the boat made a sharp turn to starboard. “Now, pull in your main sheet and push the tiller away from you,” he counseled. I did so, and she magically began to move forward. He was right, she worked just fine as is, and I was actually sailing! “I’ll keep an eye on you” he called. “Have fun!” He waved me off and walked back up the ramp. I cleared the end of the dock, kept


going and soon learned the tricks of the tiller. I sailed all that day, and the next and the next. When she heeled to my pucker point, I learned to spill wind


See you at the 35th PT Wooden Boat Festival ✩


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48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2011 PAGE 39


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