Te dignified little Fenwick
CHASING FENWICK [Article and photos by Jim Papa]
Pity the poor soul whose desires appear supremely possible J
ust about every sailor dreams of a boat he’d love to sail—a classic yacht with a mirror finish moored stern-to somewhere in the Med, or maybe a sharp little
Herreshoff, its brightwork agleam, bouncing in the harbor at Hyannis Port. Whatever the reason—money, fate, or simple circumstance—the lucky sailor’s dream always lies soundly out of reach, a perennially pleasant diversion of sorts, a way of wiling away gray December aſternoons when his own beloved boat, ever in need of repair, lies under a dirty tarp until spring. But pity the poor soul whose desires appear supremely possi-
ble, who doesn’t pine for a grand schooner the likes of Sterling Hayden’s Wanderer, or even something more temperate, such as Carleton Mitchell’s famed ocean racer, the yawl Finnisterre. What of the sailor tortured by a desire for something far sim- pler? Say, a small knock-about built from a dozen planks, with a mast hardly more than twice his height. A boat let out by the hour. A boat that by all rights anyone might sail upon. What of the sailor whose decidedly pedestrian dream is snatched, repeatedly, right from under his bows? On our first trip to the Wooden Boat Show at Mystic Seaport, half a dozen years ago, my first mate Sue and I were
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delighted to discover that our admission tickets allowed us to take out any number of the Seaport’s small-craſt replicas. During the show rentals were free, and there was no limit to the number of times one could take a boat out. Te rules were simple: sign a release, wear a life-vest, stay between the boat shop and the drawbridge, and bring the boat back in an hour. Hardly knowing what was available that first Friday aſter-
noon when we arrived, since most of the fleet was already out sailing the river, we looked out the window at the few boats tied to the floating piers, or pulled up on the small beach alongside it, and chose a kind of clunky catboat with tawny gunwales, called the Sandy Ford. Just coming in from a sail, she was all of eleven feet long, thick-ribbed, and sported a sprit rig. We signed the release forms, grabbed a couple of worn PFDs, and headed out of the shop down to the pier, where a Seaport staffer was helping the departing crew tie the Sandy Ford up. A few minutes later we were aboard and heading out on a starboard tack toward the Sabino, the Seaport’s 1908 steamboat, which was taking on passengers. Te wind in that corner of the river was light and fluky,
SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR
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