mist, punctuated by a steamy sun which occasionally broke through the sodden clouds. Still, despite the weather, the boat show was mobbed, and when we arrived that Friday Fenwick was already out and about. So we chose one of the colorful Beetle Cats moored south of the channel. We filled out the requisite release forms, complied with requests for ID, and aſter searching through a pile of PFDs for ones that fit, I turned and asked when they’d be taking us out to the boat. Perhaps I had a bit of Fen- wick on the brain, as I’d assumed something like a liveryman in a striped shirt taking us out to our charter in a smart tender. But I was casually dis- abused of any such favors as might once have been accorded a vessel’s master, and told to take one of the dories beached alongside the shop. So it was we climbed into a stodgy green dory as we shoved it off the pebbled beach. Once afloat I shipped the oars and rowed us out through a
fine New England drizzle to one of three Beetle Cats riding like ducks in the mist. On the way we crossed the channel, where the brusque tidal current tugging at a nearby buoy threatened to carry us off course, but I pulled a bit harder and was soon se- curing the dory to the Beetle Cat’s mooring ball. Once assured the dory would be waiting for us when we returned, we climbed aboard, or per- haps I should say spilled into, the Beetle Cat’s small cockpit. I’d sailed on a gaff-rig
once, some 25 years before, and despite some initial doubts on the part of my first mate, hauled throat and peak aloft promptly without need of any fo’c’sle oaths. Te sail up, a squally gust shook the rig like a Jack Russell might shake a rat, and I caught my first mate looking dubiously back at the dory. But before she could say anything like “Maybe….” or even jump back into the dory again, I’d cast off the mooring line and we were underway. Te Beetle Cat proved fun to sail and held her own against
the end we managed well enough, even when maneuvering through the mooring field. The next day, after a late morning sail in a boat named
Cat’s Paw, we tried again that aſternoon to get our hands on Fenwick. We came close. Fenwick was resting at the dock, and there were only a few people on-line ahead of us. We’d already been out twice that morning on other boats, and, as the saying goes, three times is the charm. Half the little fleet was tied up to the floating dock. What were the odds that the people in front of us would pick Fenwick? Still, we kept our fingers crossed. We’d been close before. And then it happened,
Te boat named Cat’s Paw
the couple in front of us stepped up to the counter and requested Fenwick.
Though I was already wearing my life-vest, I felt myself start to sink through the wooden floor. It was already aſter lunch and chances were slim that we’d get another shot at the Fenwick if we took out another boat. The afternoon was heating up, and there’d likely be a long line when we got back. Well, we thought, what’s an hour? Being gracious sports, we stepped up to the counter and happily offered to surrender our turn for a promise to let us have Fenwick when it returned. The woman behind
the counter torpedoed our hopes: “The hour limit is kind of loose. People can keep the boats out longer if they wish. And any way, we don’t have the staff to go out and chase them down.” This sudden dispen-
Te author rowing the dory out. Photo Sue Harper
sation was cer tainly news to us. We’d always returned faithfully at the end of our allotted time, mindful of those eagerly awaiting their
a few good puffs that threatened to knock her down, but John Beetle must have been thinking of grade school kids or single-handed sailing when he designed the little cat, as the long tiller proved an obstacle for two adults scrambling to the windward side in the midst of a tack. More than once the mate feared we might capsize before coming cleanly about, but in
40
happy hour afloat. Not the kind of sailors to show up late for watch, we’d always thought ourselves courteous and virtuous crew, only to find out we were something akin to greenhorns when it came to the way things really ran. An hour’s wait on the dock in the hot sun was one thing, but we didn’t fancy two. So we took the only boat leſt we’d yet to sail upon: the Helen Packer. A slender girl with soſt bilges, Helen had her allure. But
we’d had our sights set on Fenwick, a somewhat hard-chined sort of gentleman we couldn’t imagine would ever take lib-
SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR
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