Reflections on the Water

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Reflections on the Water

By

George Bollenbacher

(Columns originally published in the Twin-Keeler newsletter)


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Fitting Out

T here is nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about with boats,said the Water Rat in Kenneth Grahames The Wind In the Willows a perceptive rodentif ever there was one. Although his boat was a small wooden punt at the edge of anEnglish chalk stream, and mine a middle-aged fiberglass sloop at the edge of the HudsonRiver, I think we are kindred spirits, the Water Rat and I. Our craft are means of transportation, to be sure, and means of recreation on the water, but they are also meansof expression on dry land.

When you live in the temperate climates like I do, your boat spends a significant part of each year out of the water, and that creates a seasonal rhythm. Sometime in late autumn Iwinch the boat onto its trailer. After I stow the sails, drop the mast, remove the outboard,unship the rudder, pull off the cushions, and scrub the bottom, I take my Alacrity 19,Greyhound , to its winter home, an auto storage yard that has two essential features: itslocked and its cheap. Once I chock the wheels and tie down the tarp, Greyhound settlesdown for its long winters nap, but I start planning for the spring fitting out.

If the truth be told, some of this planning has been happening all summer. Every time Itake the boat out I see a little something I'd like to improve. The mainsheet traveler reallyshould be upgraded. The cockpit drains have been clogged ever since I bought it. Theforestay has begun to fray. The deck is looking drab and weather-beaten. The problem is,there is never enough time to really plan these things, let alone work on them, when the

breeze is blowing and the river beckons. After all, sailing is the whole point of having asloop, isnt it?

Maybe it is in the summer, but in the off-season the whole point is messing about. Withthe boat out of reach for all but the simplest jobs, the snow and sleet months are perfectfor designing fixes and ordering parts. Not that I dont run down to the yard once a monthor so, partly to make sure the tarp is holding up and partly to check on measurements.There is nothing so deflating as building something at home only to find it doesntexactly fit when you get to the boat. But most of my winter messing about happens on my

basement workbench or my computer keyboard.

Things start in earnest, though, along about the middle of March, when I ransomGreyhound and bring her home to my driveway. She temporarily relegates my SUV tothe automobile equivalent of the living room couch - a spot across the street - and I get towork. This past spring I painted the deck, which began with the removal of most of thehardware and the taping of the rest. In her partly undressed state she looked oddly

beautiful; a combination of strength and vulnerability that we dont easily perceive on thewater.

It is during this fitting out process that I make many discoveries sometimes minor andsometimes frightening. Last spring I was cleaning out the bilge under the cockpit, findingthe previous owners one abandoned boat shoe (what happened to its mate, I wonder),


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when I noticed that the clamp holding the port cockpit drain hose to the throughhull hadcome loose and ridden half way up the hose. How long it had been like that I have noidea, but the joint was so frozen together that Im sure the boat had sailed with it that wayfor several seasons. I think my after-the-fact tightening of the clamp was mostly for peaceof mind, but I did it with a vengeance.

As I work around Greyhound , I come to appreciate how different she looks on thetrailer, as opposed to in the water, and how elegant. A sailboat on the hard doesnt reallylook like a fish out of water; more like a bird on the nest, or a horse in the stable, all themore graceful for being out of her element. All the lines are there for me to see, and shelooks like she cant wait to get down to the river. So I hurry through the rest of my fittingout, even leaving a few jobs for after she is launched. After all, some of my messingabout needs to be saved for the summer, long after the fitting out is over.

Spring, 2005


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The Other Boat

If you are or were ever married, or even in a long-term relationship, you will know what Imean when I admit to having had a fling with another boat.

I didnt set out to get into trouble this way. It began when I took a six-month consultingassignment in San Francisco, which entailed renting a furnished apartment in the SouthBeach neighborhood, a few blocks from the Embarcadero and literally in the shadow of the Bay Bridge. I would only be coming back to New York about every other weekend,so my wife was worried that I might have a middle-aged fling with another woman. Thatonly goes to show that she doesnt understand the heart of a sailor.

As soon as I had moved into my little apartment and started my project, I went on the prowl, not for a woman, but for a boat to crew on. The Mecca for crew, as it is for singles, is the internet, and it was there that I found the South Beach Yacht Club, located

just down the Embarcadero, between my apartment and SBC Park.

By some industrious poking around I contacted the clubs membership chairwoman, andshe hooked me up with the owner of the other boat a J/105. SBYC has a series of winter races - one every month from November through March - and Dick Smith provedto be the perfect boat owner for someone looking to crew. In other words, he wascongenial, adaptable, and not totally focused on winning every race.

And so it came to pass that I joined Dick and his crew on Luna Sea for the next race inthe winter series, in mid-January. For sailors, and for racers in particular, winter on TheBay has pluses and minuses. One plus is that it is seldom cold enough to make sailingreally uncomfortable. One minus is that the wind can be fluky in the winter. For the

January race we got both the plus and the minus. The temperature was mid 50s(Fahrenheit), but the wind took the day off. Coupled with a 3-knot ebb tide, that meantthat we motored out to the course, hung there next to the committee boat until the racewas canceled, and motored back to the slip. A little disappointing, perhaps, but still somuch better than hanging around the apartment.

Even under those conditions, Luna Sea was captivating. J-Boats are really one-designracers with bunks and a galley, and Luna Sea in her berth was like Seabiscuit in his stall -all athlete and ready to run. The retracted bowsprit was just waiting to be extended, theasymmetrical spinnaker was lying at the ready, and the big Harken two-speeds gave off that unmistakable purr. Just boarding her made you feel like a sailor.

A few weeks later, Dick and I took her out for an afternoon romp, and I got to see her with the bit in her teeth. Not a howling wind, mind you, but enough for her to kick up her heels. We sailed around Yerba Buena Island, under the Bay Bridge twice, and were homein time for tea. Two of us could handle her very well, if you made allowances for myunfamiliar fumbling, and I came away from the dock all smiles.


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In many ways, Luna Sea was everything that Greyhound, my Alacrity 19, is not. She was big - almost twice as big - and fast. She was much newer - in fact Greyhound was almosttwice as old. And she was impressive, while Greyhound was simple and, you might say,adequate. But mostly she belonged to someone else. Dick paid for her, and her slip, andthe small amount of diesel fuel she used. He bought her new canvas when the old sails

wore out, and fixed her winches when the pawls stopped working. He even had a sparePFD on board for crew members like me who showed up woefully unprepared.

Being someone elses seemed to make Luna Sea all the more attractive. And not just tome, either. One of the crew members I met owned his own sloop, but he manned the helmfor Dick instead of on his own boat. Maybe it was the camaraderie of the crew on LunaSea , but I think she appealed to his senses the same way she appealed to mine. Everyonewants to spend time with the prettiest girl at the party.

But someone elses boat is still not yours, and all flings must come to an end. It turns outthat Dick had put Luna Sea up for sale long before I came to San Francisco. Shortly

before I was due to return to the East Coast, Dick found a buyer, and announced that shewas gone. After having her on the market for many months, the departure was prettysudden - no time for a final race or even sail around the Bay.

So I came back home to Greyhound , and I appreciated her more than before I left. WhileI was playing with another, she was huddled patiently under her tarp, covered with snow,

biding her time until I came back. No hard feelings. As I reclaimed her, I realized that shewas just right for me - not too big and not too small. Her tiller fit right in my hand, whileLuna Seas wheel always felt a bit foreign to me. I knew every inch of Greyhound , aboveand below the waterline, and Id fixed or replaced many of her parts. Oddly, as I got her ready for launch this spring she seemed almost like a new boat. Flings will do that. I hopeDick will remain a friend, and I had a ball on Luna Sea , but I know where my heart is.

Oh, and my wife was glad I came home from California, too.

Summer, 2005

(This column also appeared in Good Old Boat Magazine )


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Singlehanding

Let me say at the outset that I never intended singlehanding to become a way of life.After all, Im not really an unsociableperson. Just ask anyone. Well, maybe not himor

heror him. Anyway, heres my side of the story.

When I first bought Greyhound, an Alacrity 19, my imagination was rife with sociablesailing adventures. My wife and I were going to take romantic evening cruises on theHudson, savoring the green hills in the distance. Maybe wed even have a picnic dinner in the cockpit while we watched the sun set over the Hudson Highlands.

Or I thought wed go out on summer weekends with friends, noodling around the TappanZee until we got hungry, and then have dinner at the local marinas patio grill. Or wedtake the grandchildren out and introduce them to the fun of sailing.In the beginning, we did all those things. While the novelty was still there, Betsy, my

wife, always seemed to be as ready to go out as I was. Even the sailing chores, likefolding and bagging the sails after every outing, were done together. But the summer wind on the Hudson can be a sometimes thing, so we had our fair share of frustratingexperiences - motoring around, looking for a breath of wind, all the while battling thetides.

Betsy soon tired of that, though, and she became wary of my, Im sure theres a breeze,lets go! suggestions. As it turned out, she became our wind curse. If the leaves on thetrees around our house were stirring, and I convinced her to go, the Hudson wasinvariably glassy calm and we came in hot and frustrated. If she begged off on the

premise that there was no wind, I went by myself and usually found enough breeze tohave a great time.

We did have some wonderful sails, though. Our very first outing was in a fresh breeze,under startlingly blue skies, and we ripped up and down the river at a marvelous pace much too fast, as it turns out, for our combination of new sailors and old sails. As we tiedup, eyes sparkling, the guy working on his boat down the dock asked Enough wind for you? Only later did I realize the significance of his question.

My dreams of introducing other people to sailing never did fully materialize either. Myco-owner, who had never sailed before, came often in the beginning, and sometimes

brought his friends. I got to play instructor without injuring anyone (its great for the egoto have someone on board who has no idea whats happening). But then he moved to theother side of the county, and,having four young daughters, he never seems to have the time to sail any more.

I did take a few folks out, including my Sunday school class a couple of times. The firstouting, everyone was having a great time until I looked over my shoulder and saw the

black clouds racing in from the northwest. Im not sure if the kids saw the look in myeyes, but we executed an emergency gybe and headed right back to the marina. The


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second time I took them out, a couple of the kids began to get the hang of steering, butthey never asked to go out again. I guess sailings not for everyone.

So I have become used to singlehanding. I can get from my house to the marina, readythe boat, and be out on the river inside of fifteen minutes. I have made all sorts of

upgrades that allow me to do almost everything from the cockpit: routing the halyards tothe cabin roof, installing a tiller-tamer for temporary selfsteering, fitting a shift linkagefor the outboard, and replacing the wood snubber winches with proper crankable ones,for example.

And Ive honed my sailing skills as well. Now I almost never end up in irons when I tack because I got so busy resetting the main that I let go of the tiller (although I did that verything just last evening). And Ive gotten single-handed mooring down to a science. I haveeven been able to wing the jib out on the whisker pole by myself, which requires leavingthe cockpit (and thus the tiller) unattended and going to the foredeck with my heart in mythroat.

In the end, though, Id rather sail with company. In fact, I think the breeze just came up,so I maybe Ill ask Betsy if she wants to go out. What do you think shell say?

Autumn, 2005


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Sailoring

I used to think that people who sailed, even on little sailboats, were a breed apart. When Iwas a landlubber, sailboat-less and forlorn, these seamen, and their confident and competentfam-ilies, carried around a mystique that I held in awe. They could do something I couldnt,they were comfortable in surroundings I wasnt, they were just bettern me.

If familiarity breeds contempt (which I dont believe) then unfamiliarity must breedrespect. As a teenager in Chicago, I was curious about everything, and I convinced a local

boat owner to take me out on Lake Michigan in his sloop, which was, to my inexperiencedeyes, enormous. He and his wife were the most gracious of hosts, but the lake was not ashospitable, so I spent most of the day hanging over the side.

Although my performance seemed to discourage him, it didnt dampen my enthusiasm, soI found as many opportunities as possible to get out on the water any water. Big lakes,little ones, any boat with a sail would do for me. I had some pretty exciting times on a ClassC Scow, for those who know what that is.

But my family werent sailors, so we never had a boat of any size. Living on the westshore of one of the largest fresh water lakes in the world, we never raised an anchor, never hauled a halyard, never trimmed a sheet. My college days were, if anything, even farther from sailing water, in the middle of the prairie at a Big Ten university. So, when I went toLondon for graduate school, I was severely sailing-deprived, even though I had managed toacquire a copy of Eric Hiscocks Cruising Under Sail .

While we were in London we actually got out once on a class-mates daysailer in theThames estuary, but I was so concerned about Betsys having a good time, and about being a

good guest, that I didnt get to spend much time sailoring. I did manage to run us aground,though. I guess that counts for something.

Coming back to New York, and starting to work in banking and finance, seemed a natural pro-gression. Yet again I was living near good sailing water, but not doing much sailing.Somewhere along with starting a family, I got into the country club life of tennis and golf,missing the real fun that was so close at hand.

I did manage to crew for a while on a company boat; part of a fleet of J-24s maintainedon lower Manhattan for evening races in New York harbor. I think that was my first serioussailing duty scrambling up to the weather rail at the first lift of the wind, setting the

spinnaker as we rounded the windward mark, and sometimes watching the mark slide awayfrom us as the evening breeze died at the height of the ebb tide.

But I wasnt really a sailor yet, and it looked like I might never be. It was only theappearance of Greyhound , unnamed when I found her on eBay, that got me over the hump. Itwas only after I bought her, lovingly prepared her that first winter, and got her into the water the next spring, that sailing really got into my blood.


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Even now, as the season draws to a close, and the evening sails get shorter, or come to ahalt entirely, I have a few projects that beckon. I need to replace my fender lines before theychafe through and send my fenders floating down the marina. I think the battery connectionis loose, so Ive taken to running the VHF on dry cells, which is a stopgap. And all the teak needs to be sanded and finished; I think Ill try Bristol Finish this time. Lots to do.

But for the moment, the breeze has picked up, which doesnt always happen here. Theflags on the marina wall are tugging at their staffs, the surface of the Hudson has that gray-

blue patina that speaks of a brisk run up the river toward the forbidding brick hulk of SingSing prison. Or maybe Ill scoot under the Tappan Zee Bridge, always a strange feeling after driving over it so many times, and head on down to Washington Irvings farmhouse by theriver. On the way Ill pass by Jay Goulds Art Deco mansion, Lyndhurst.

If the wind holds, I can be out and back, button the boat up, have a beer, and still get homein time to help fix dinner. You might say I didnt go anywhere, and youd be right, but Ithink its always a trip worth taking.

Spring, 2006


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coiling the docklines, pushing off, and away we go. But its amazing the number of times Ifind myself taking off the sail ties while under way, or diving below decks for the winchhandle as I exit the marina. Its a good thing no one knows how forgetful I am.

In the end, though, its under sail where anticipation really comes into play. With no

brakes and, for the most part, no motor, we sailors have to look beyond the immediate as amatter of course to make sure we get where were going. In the Tappan Zee, where I sail,the combination of fickle winds and very predictable tides makes having a plan a

prerequisite for not hitting a bridge abutment. And when I singlehand, which is becomingmy usual mode, even tacking requires thinking ahead.

Landlubbers who sail with me are amazed at how much forward thinking is involved insailing. While they are relaxing, leaning back to get the sun full on their face, Im watchingthe luff or the waters surface, keeping an eye on the blue-grey cloud peeking over thePalisades, or gauging the speed of that freighter in the channel against my intersectingcourse. Is the wind rising or dropping, steady from the west or veering, against the tide or

with it?Im sure they think that Im too distracted to be having any fun, but I wouldnt have it

any other way. Just thinking about it gets my imagination started. I can hardly wait for opening day!

Summer, 2006


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Improvements

I suspect, from reading the Twin-Keeler newsletter, and from some of the twin-keeler web sites Ive visited, that many of you are boat-tinkerers as well as sailors. I know I am, soI feel Im among friends when I admit that I probably spend as much time working onGreyhound as I do sailing her, over the course of a year.

That makes me what one of my sailing friends calls a blue-collar sailor. I wasnt sure,when he first called me that, how to take it. Was it a compliment or a put-down? Was hedissing me or envying me? Im still not exactly sure which it was, but heres some insightinto his view of sailing, to put things in perspective.

His parents took the family to Casco Bay, in Maine, every summer when he was a boy, andnow he takes his family there every year. Shortly after I got Greyhound on the Internet, hewent boat shopping, but he restricted himself to boatyards on Casco Bay. That fall he founda Grampian 36 big enough for his family (four kids) and got it for a fair price. Over thewinter the boatyard where he bought it made the necessary repairs and improvements tomake it safe and comfortable for his family. I happened to see the spring bill for all thiswork, and it almost exactly equaled his purchase price. I suspect that he still thinks he got a

bargain, and who am I to argue?

But his sailing style certainly isnt mine. When I got Greyhound , she was a solid, butthoroughly used, boat. I got her into the water as soon as she was safe, and had a blasttooling around the Hudson River, but her immense room for improvement caught my eyealmost immediately. Ever since, my boat time has been a tug of war between improvingand sailing.

If you grew up around boats, which I did not, you would find most of the projects Iundertook manageable, if not second nature. On the other hand, if you grew up a landlubber,then boat improvements can be a combination of a jungle and a squall line. Thats been myexperience, anyway.

The first step in the improvement game was to accumulate a set of boat tools. Most of mine were liberated from my workbench in the basement, but a few were purchased just for the boat. And I bring the more substantial ones from home as needed.

I remember one of the earliest improvements, replacing the snubber winches on myAlacrity with a proper pair of Marelon ones, which involved drilling out the brass screws

that held the old winches, since they were far too corroded to be backed out with ascrewdriver. I destroyed one drill bit in the process, but the local hardware store was closeenough that I could finish the job with almost no delay. Since I singlehand often, I reallyappreciate putting the handle in the new winches and trimming the jib with ease.

On the Alacrity web site you can read about how I replaced my broken rudder, and aboutmy new mainsheet traveler, so I wont retell those tales here. Other improvements are smallenough, or far enough in the past, that they hardly bear mentioning.


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For example, I built a shift linkage for my outboard motor, which allows me to maneuver

through the marina without hanging precariously over the stern. I used a cable that was probably too long for the task, but it works just fine. And I fitted a lazy Jack so I can dropthe main (using my homemade downhaul) without its ending up all over the deck.

But the big project for this year was fitting a jib furler. I got one on Ebay (where else?)and set about figuring out the best way to install it. Since my genoa has a well-seized wireluff, I decided to mount the furler inside the forestay, instead of on the forestay. Thatinvolved several adjustments to the mounting, as well as sewing a UV-strip to the genoa.

It mostly involved drilling two new holes, one on the stemhead fitting and one on themasthead fitting. I got the stemhead hole right the first time, so that both the furling drumand jib cleared the forestay, but I didnt get the masthead hole right the first time, so I hadto bring the mast down one more time, redrill, reattach the upper swivel, and raise the mastonce again.

This was all on a fairly warm day, so I was pretty flushed and tired by the time I hadrebolted the mast, reattached and tightened all the turnbuckles, and rethreaded the main intoits track. Now for the final exam. The jib furled and unfurled like a dream. Im sure anyonewho saw me jumping up and down on the floating dock, yelling, YESS, YESS thought Iwas a lunatic, but I thought of myself as simply improving the breed.

Autumn, 2006


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Close-Hauled

I have recently noticed a certain disparity between the pictures and the writing in manysailing periodicals. In particular, I have noticed that the writing is often about the easier side of sailing unless its about racing. The cruising side of writing seems mostly to beabout broad reaches and protected anchorages with the barbeque fired up, but the

pictures, including the ones in the ads, tend to show the boats close-hauled with thegenoa cinched down hard, the lee rail kissing the foam, and spray bouncing off the bow.

The skipper in these pictures is almost always plainly visible at the helm, not cowering behind the dodger, as he often is in the articles. And the crew is either working hard onthe foredeck or sitting in the cockpit enjoying the thrill of the ride. On the other hand, if the picture is part of an ad, the text is often about the conveniences of the boat, and howeasy it is to sail.

Not all the writing concentrates on the easy side of sailing, of course; for example,every month Sailing magazine has a Voice of Experience column on near disasters (or worse), with a Lessons Learned sidebar. And the profiles of famous sailors have plentyof hair-raising stories of rough passages. But I cant get away from the feeling that thevisuals we see in these magazines are often about seeking excitement, while the text isoften about finding ease.

Which got me to thinking about which it is Im after when I sail. Am I seeking the thrillor the relaxation? Do I want my hands full; the wind up, whitecaps ripping off the tops of the waves, deciding whether to reef before its too late? Or do I want my mind at ease; agentle breeze off the starboard beam, the sun warm on my face, and the boat sailingitself?

Now, if I gave you the answer to that question right away, there would be nothing to fillup the rest of this page. True, I could get right down to the marina and be out on the river in no time, but that wouldnt be fair to you, would it? So I should really give the questiona little more thought.

To begin with, I guess I subscribe to the belief that relaxation doesnt come from doingnothing, it comes from doing something different. In all my previous hobbies - fromtennis to fly fishing and then to golf I picked something I needed to learn, so relaxationwas a matter of getting involved, not sitting around. And sailing fits right in to thatsequence.

In addition, sailing seems to me to be more about harnessing nature than any of my previous hobbies. It may be a little maturity, or it may be my advancing age, but I think Iget more satisfaction out of raising the sails and shutting down the motor than I ever didout of acing an opponent or hooking a trout. That first surge as the sails fill, and the firstheel as the boat reacts, moves me into a different world, even if Im only a half mile fromhome.


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I find that, whenever I go sailing, I always seem to head upwind first. Of course, Im

headed right into the wind as I set the sails, but I seldom fall far off right away. I guessthe boat seems more alive when its beating, and that aliveness is important to me when Ifirst get out on the water. Later, when Ive gotten my sailing fix, I can head downwind.

Not that running is all that relaxing. Ive found that downwind steering is more of achallenge than upwind steering. Greyhound has a pretty serious weather helm when sheheels, but dealing with that is still easier than anticipating the following swells thatalways seem to overtake me when Im off the wind. Maybe it just takes some gettingused to, but Im always a little edgy when Im going down wind.

Going to windward is another matter entirely, at least for me. The movement of the boat seems more predictable, I can gauge my progress and my sailing line better, and I just feel more at home at the tiller. My progress is slower, to be sure, but the apparentwind speed is higher, and Im always up for a little more speed, even if it only looks that

way. In fact, every so often the tides on the Hudson make a mockery of my upwind prowess. Nothing makes the bar at the boat club more inviting than watching the channelmarker slide slowly away from my bow as I try to wring the last bit of speed from afading summer breeze.

But for me the best thing about sailing close-hauled is beating the wind at its owngame. Ever since I was a kid the idea of using the wind to push me into itself seemed likea modern miracle. I know full well how it works, of course, but I will never get over thefact that I can actually do it. As a twin-keeler, Greyhound doesnt point all that well, so Iwill never win the upwind leg of a race, but I can usually make it to the windward mark in the end.

And in that respect I find that my sailing sometimes mimics my life. I dont want tooverstate the case, but I find myself sailing upwind all too often in work as well as at

play. Overcoming obstacles, making progress through adversity, and proving doubterswrong seems to be my preferred modus operandi - so much so that I sometimes create

barriers for myself when they arent there already.

So it shouldnt surprise me (or you) that I am in my element going to windward. Giveme a stiff breeze off the port bow, a little sea room under my lee, and a waypoint upahead, and Grey-hound and I make a great team. I guess you could say that Im just aclose-hauled kind of guy.

Winter, 2006


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Aging Gracefully

Some people, as well as some boats, have learned the secret of aging gracefully.Some others, of both types, have not. Which kind I am we will get to in a minute.

I guess the first secret of aging gracefully is being able to age at all. For a boat, thatmeans such simple things as not sinking or catching fire, so as to be around well into itsthirties. You will instantly recognize, I suspect, that for a boat this secret is equal partsluck and care.

For people, this part of aging gracefully has more than one component. Heredity plays a big part, of course. How often have you heard a doctor say that the secret tolongevity is picking the right parents? Same thing, I suppose, for boats and designers. Butfor people this part of the equation also involves care, as in taking care of themselves. Aswe get older, the precautions we take all our lives - exercise, proper diet, hygiene, safedriving, not smoking - start to pay dividends, even if we arent always aware of them.

Inevitably, however, we require the care of a medical professional. Doctors have prolonged both my life and my wife Betsys on several occasions. I know they thoughtthey were just doing their jobs, but I know better; they were working little miracles, for which I will be forever grateful.

We have to recognize, though, that aging is not, in and of itself, a graceful process,either for boats or people. When we are children, we look at older relatives as if they hadalways been that way; slower, more wrinkled, more subdued versions of ourselves. Onlyas our years slip by do we realize that theres a process involved there, one that we, too,will have to live through.

Ive noticed that it is much the same with boats. In the marina where Greyhoundspends her summers, there are boats of all ages and muscularities lying side by side, thenewer and more powerful ones seemingly oblivious of the older, more mundane ones, or to the fate that awaits them, if they are lucky. It is the demeanor of the older ones, though,that always draws my attention. Proud of their heritage, wearing years of service like a

badge, eagerly awaiting the next jaunt on the river, they seem to have the kind of grace Istrive for, and only sometimes achieve.

Greyhound, of course, is at the head of this pack. Built in 1970 in England, myAlacrity 19 has had more owners than I will ever know. How she got to the United States

is a mystery to me. Did her previous owners have large families or no children? Didsmall fry get their first taste of sailing on her, or did elderly couples while away their retirements in her cockpit? Was she someones introduction to sailing, patiently teachingthem the ropes, or someones valedictory to the sea? Or maybe all of the above.

At present, though, shes mine, so how gracefully she ages from now on is up to me. Igot her in pretty good condition, for her age. There were the usual nicks and scrapes,thescars of an active life, of course. Come to think of it, I have a few of those myself.


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When she was delivered to me her mast tabernacle was sitting on one of the bunksinstead of the deck, and one of her spreaders was missing, but putting those right was partof the fun of getting to know her.

And I think my improvements have helped her age a little more gracefully. Her new

rudder, carefully shaped from an oak plank after her original broke during a sail, is oneenhancement Im proud of. The new mainsheet traveler I built to replace the simple steel bar she used to have is another. Im proud of that, too. Not only do these things add toGreyhounds looks and performance, they make her mine more than my check to her

previous owner ever did.

So Greyhound has come to terms with matronship, I think. Shes not the fastest sloopin the marina, nor the biggest, nor even the prettiest. She doesnt make the fellows oohand ahh when she glides in an out of the harbor mouth. Her picture doesnt appear onmagazine covers or web sites. She just does everything I need, with a minimum of fuss or maintenance. She only uses about ten gallons of fuel a year, she has no blisters in her

gelcoat, and her standing rigging looks brand new. Shes gotten me through a fewexciting moments, and shes taught me a lot about sailing, without ever saying a word.

But she doesnt hold a candle to Betsy in the gracefulness department. Take looks, for example. Whenever we are introduced to someone, and they find out weve been married40 years, Im always accused of cradle-robbing. Ill cop a guilty plea on that one. Its allnatural, too; no Nip/Tuck story lines here.

And looks are just the beginning. You would have to know her lifes history, like Ido, to know the quiet strength she brings to everything she does. Shes weathered seriousillness and is a source of strength to those who encounter it themselves. She raised twowonderful children, who are raising wonderful children of their own. Best of all, she has

been a true life's companion.

So I guess the real secret to aging gracefully is being loved. I think that Betsy,Greyhound, and I are all pretty lucky in that regard. And may you be, as well.

Spring, 2007


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NauticalSpeak

A t the Harvard University commencement, the valedictory speech is traditionally givenin Latin. Each year the valedictorian works hard to incorporate into the talk as manycommon Latin phrases as possible, so the speech is sprinkled with old standards like E

Pluribus Unum and status quo , as well as lots of legal and medical jargon. Only when wehear these terms in their native tongue do we realize their derivation, and how much we haveadapted their original meaning to our modern usage.

The same holds true, of course, for nautical terms. Perhaps because Britain is an islandnation, English has more than its fair share of transformed seafaring terminology, some of which has completely abandoned its nautical heritage. However, when we undertake thesailing life, we often see these non-nautical terms as sailors originally used them.

But enough chit-chat. I had better get this column under way , or the editor will lower theboom on me. When I first decided to tackle this subject, I thought it would be smooth

sailing ; little did I know how hard it would be. I thought I would see sailing termseverywhere, just falling into place as I went along now I see that these terms are both rarer and more willful than I ever thought.

So, I decided to take a different tack . Instead of just waiting for them to come to me, I took a more organized approach. A little diligent searching gave me a list of terms, and I set out to weave them into my narrative. So, if youll just give me some leeway , Ill get on with it.

The office is one of those places where nauticalspeak comes in waves . No matter who is at the helm , business always seems to end up being all hands on deck , just to keep thingsrunning smoothly. If the crew can rise to the occasion, and get through the heavy weather ,

everyone will have a chance to celebrate their success, and maybe, when the sun is over the yardarm, get three sheets to the wind .

Sometimes, of course, things dont go so well at the office. The quarterly revenue numbersare below projections, the technology projects run aground , morale heads south, thecompany has lost its course, and the ship appears rudderless . Thats when senior management may be thrown overboard , and everyone battens down the hatches for a newstart.

Outside the office, we hear nauticalspeak as well, but in this case it is more hidden. Takechurch, for example, especially when there is no service going on. For many of us, at that

time the empty sanctuary is truly a safe harbor , a respite from the rough waters outside. Thecalm , the quiet broken only by the occasional footfall, is mystical. And the pulpit , namedafter the part of a British navy ship where the captain preached the Sunday sermon when atsea, reminds us of our place in the congregation during the service.

Elsewhere, nauticalspeak appears in the oddest places. In sports, just when our team, saythe NY Mets, seems to have it all together, the tide turns , a few key players get injured, a few


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more go into a slump, and the whole season starts to fall apart. Before we know it, a hatedrival is leaving them in its wake .

Even at home we can hear nauticalspeak everywhere. Home is the place where we feelanchored , with our family around us and familiar things close at hand. Whether everything is

shipshape there, or on the rocks , it always seems to be our port in a storm . Unless, of course,things get really bad at home, and then we are truly adrift .

So we do nauticalspeak all the time, without thinking about it. Except when we are onour boat. Then all the words and phrases revert to their original, and very specific, meanings.My first season with Greyhound , I asked a crew member to release the jib sheets from their cam cleats so the jib wouldnt suddenly fill when it was deployed. He misunderstood,untying the figure eight knots at the bitter ends and leaving the lines lying loose on the deck.When I headed into the brisk breeze and raised the jib, I suddenly got an appreciation for thatnew nautical term, two sheets to the wind.

I have more than once demonstrated how to end up in irons, and even a few examples of how to get out, so a lot of my sailing is a demonstration of the downside of nauticalspeak. If Iwerent the skipper, as well as the crew most of the time, I would have been keel-hauled more than once for putting the whole boat at risk, not to mention looking pretty silly at thehelm. The nonsailing folks I take out on Greyhound always marvel at the sailing vocabulary Ican spout, but only I know whereof I nauticalspeak, and it aint pretty.

Summer, 2007


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Heavy Weather

I have been reading a couple of Christmas books that a very perceptive friend gaveme this year. One is Joshua Slocums Sailing Alone around the World , and the other is

Bruce Knechts account of the 1998 Sydney-Hobart race, The Proving Ground . These books are the perfect way for a sailor to pass the winter.

For me the Slocum book is really a re-read of this wonderful story of the first solocircumnavigation of the world on a sailboat in this case a rebuilt 37-foot Gloucester fishing sloop named Spray . Slocums New England writing style is both spare and subtle;you can almost hear him spinning this yarn in the lee of the longboat, or perhaps infront of a hardwood fire as the winter dusk settles over Fall River.

This time around I was struck by the matter-of-fact way he treats the many storms heencountered on his trip, which ran from April, 1895 to June, 1898. He doesnt downplay

their severity, he just doesnt dwell on the danger or discomfort. They were simply partof the journey. Perhaps most interesting of all is the fact that he arrived back off the NewJersey coast during one of the worst hurricanes to attack New York in the 19th century.And the storm only merits a few sentences in his book. He just rode it out and made hisway back to Fairhaven in his own good time.

One reason he could deal with heavy weather so well, even as a solo sailor, was that hehad a stout ship and a flexible schedule, and had faced hundreds of storms in his career asa clipper captain. When it got really bad, he could heave to and go below to smoke a pipewhile the storm blew itself out.

The sailors in the 1998 Hobart didnt have either of those luxuries. They were participating in one of the most prestigious yacht races in the world, so they had no timeto spare, nor any weight either. Although their boats were bigger than Slocums sometimes twice as long - they had no extra strength because they were so finelyengineered for pure speed.

Unlike the Spray , the Hobart boats were heavily manned, with enough crew to standcontinuous watches, but some of the sailors werent experienced in the kind of stormsthey encountered. Even Americas Cup racing is called off if the weather isnt withinstrict limits, and some of the sailors in the Hobart were trained on one-design racers thatnever see forty-foot seas that break in the open ocean.

So the tropical cyclone that roared out of the Bass Strait just as they passed throughwreaked enormous damage. More than half of the 115 boats in the race abandoned, manywere dismasted, several sank, and six sailors perished. The heroic efforts of theAustralian coast guard helicopter crews kept the loss of life at a minimum, or this wouldsurely have been a catastrophic disaster.


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I suspect Joshua Slocum would have had a few things to say to the Hobart survivors, if he had been alive. I think he would have commiserated over their lost comrades anyexperienced sea captain would. He might have reminded them that there are old sailorsand bold sailors, but very few old bold sailors. And he could have put the winning of ayacht race in perspective, based on his vast experience delivering cargo around the world.

I think he might have a few words for me, as well. Hed probably put Greyhound squarely between Spray and the speed merchants. Shes a stout boat, for her size, andmore than able to keep me safe if I pay attention, but I dont think he could sail her for 2,300 miles with only an hour at the helm, as he did the Spray . And hed probably giveme a lecture or two about good seamanship, and I would deserve every word.

You wouldnt think that you could get much heavy weather on an inland estuary nomore than three miles wide, but you can. For all the days that the Hudson is glassy calm,there are a few each year that scare most sailors. Last summer we had the remnants of ahurricane come up the coast. There was plenty of warning, and I made several trips to the

marina to attach extra lines and fenders to Greyhound , but a few boat owners seemedoblivious to the dangers.

Several boats moored across the river broke loose in the wind and took off. Two became wedged under the Tappan Zee Bridge, and they were towed into our marinalooking sad and broken. Nothing looks more helpless than a damaged sailboat on thehard. Even in the marina, boats moored stern to the wind shipped a lot of water over their transoms, and one even sank at the dock, in spite of efforts to pump it out.

There have been a few other days when I just couldnt bring myself to go out, even if itwas the weekend. If the tree branches by our house were whipping around, and the windwas more than moaning past the eaves, I might be tempted to put a reef in the main andgo out for a spin, but caution always gets the better of me. I do find myself glancing outof the window the rest of the day, though.

On the other hand, there have been plenty of afternoons when the wind looked just right but was all I could deal with once the sails were up. At those times Im never surewhether I prefer to have a crew or sail alone. To be sure, a crew can help handling boththe sails and the boat. All the same, it means more people to worry about in casesomething breaks.

In the end, though, I seem to have the good sense to go out when its exciting and stayin when its dangerous. Just what Joshua Slocum would advise.

Autumn, 2007


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Passions

I have a passion for sailing I really do.Ask any of my neighbors, especially the ones Ive taken out on Greyhound over the past

several years. Even before we get out of the marina, I am explaining stays and shrouds,sheets and halyards. I invite them to take the helm, even if they have never sailed before, letthem trim the jib, or just relax on the foredeck, soaking up the sun. They could never mistake me for a dispassionate sailor.

Or ask the folks around my berth at the marina. While they are relaxing in the cockpit,sipping on their weekend cocktails, I am motoring in and out, busily getting in as muchsailing time as I can. And if Im not sailing, Im fixing. If Im not fixing, Im upgrading. If Im not upgrading, Im cleaning. A true water rat.

Or ask the folks who go past my driveway every spring, when Greyhound is getting her annual spiff-up. They are forever asking me if its ready to launch yet, interrupting me inthe midst of my bottom painting, topsides polishing, or teak varnishing. And the guys at thelaunch site seem to say the same thing every year, We were wondering when youd getthat thing out of your driveway.

Or ask my wife, Betsy. Wait, maybe thats not such a good idea. Its not that she woulddenigrate my passion for sailing its that she might tell you about all the passions thatwent before.

She might start with golf, my last passion before sailing. She might tell you about mydisappearing across the river to the golf course on Saturdays, just the way I head to themarina now. Or about my quick trips to the driving range. Or about the stash of golf

clubs and shoes in the corner of the basement right across from where the sails andturnbuckles are sitting now.

She might tell you about my dragging my clubs along on most of our vacations, includingour weeklong visits to the south of France, or family vacations to Cape Cod. Staggeringthrough the airport with both suitcases and a golf bag. And she would mention all the golf magazines, books and videos scattered around the house, now resting under the sailingmagazines, books and videos.

But she would really get going on my fly-fishing, which came before golf. She wouldstart by telling you about my collection of rods, reels and flies gathering dust in the

basement. She would point to the waders and fishing vest hanging on the clothes line downthere, and the wading boots on the floor under them. And she would show you my fly-tyingdesk, with the tools and materials lying on it, unused and forgotten.

She might tell you about the rods I built when my fishing passion was at its peak. How Iwould head down to the basement right after dinner and reappear at bedtime, smelling of glue and solvent. She would surely tell you about my fly-tying, the hours spent in the spare

bedroom during the winter, with thread and bobbin, hair and feathers, hooks and wax. She


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might even mention the tie on the fly kit I put together that allowed me to pursue thishobby on an airliner, back when my job required travel and airlines let you bring stuff likethat on board.

She would also recount my camping trips to the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York,

three-day weekends of tenting and fishing in historic streams like the Beaverkill and theWillowemoc. Or longer trips to the Rocky Mountains, where I slept in a cabin and fishedthe South Platte and the Frying Pan Rivers. Finally, she would drag out the columns I usedto write for a conservation newsletter - columns called, oddly enough, Reflections .

She might go further back, say to tennis, played with my teenage son before he grew upand had sons of his own. To years spent on the tennis committee of the country club. Or

perhaps to curling, a sport which we enjoyed together when we were spryer and our children were still at home. Even there, I had the passion, turning a social sport into acompetitive arena, even participating once in the New York state championships. Didnt dotoo well, I might add.

But you get the point, Im sure. I am the type to be passionate about whatever Im doing.I am by nature a learner, an experimenter, a fixer-upper, and a teacher. Betsy is used to itnow, but she still reminds me every so often of the passions I have left behind.

Sailing is different, though. Ill never learn all there is to know, and Ill never get tired of Greyhound. So this is the real passion. I mean it. No, really. Im serious this time!

Winter, 2007


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The Big Time

M y brush with the big time began when my wifes sister sold her business and retired.As a celebration, she and her husband invited Betsy and me on a Caribbean cruise, andthrew in a day of racing on 12-meter yachts off St. Martin. Naturally, wild horsescouldnt keep me away from a chance like that.

The cruise itself was on a motor/sailing ship called the Wind Spirit , built in Le Havre in1988. More than 400 feet long, with four masts that reach up more than 200 feet abovethe water, she is a distinctive and beautiful vessel. She only accommodates 148

passengers, so the feeling on board is a far cry from one of the mammoth cruise ships we passed throughout the Caribbean.

The biggest difference, of course, is the sails, 20,000 square feet of them, that unfurlmajestically under way to the accompaniment of stirring music on the PA system.According to the Danish First Officer, Mickey, the sails are much more than a decoration,they save large amounts of fuel when up and drawing. He mentioned, with some pride,that he had gotten the ship up to 16 knots on sails alone, with what he described as 45knot winds, smack on the beam. That sounds like 12-meter type performance to me.

Our cabin was on the lowest deck, putting me about as close to the water as I am inGreyhound , but it was still a strange feeling to look out the porthole and see that my headwas above the waterline while my feet were below. At night, though, when the ship wasunder way, it was soothing to hear the sea slide by, occasionally sloshing the portlight.Good for sleeping, although I didnt need much encouragement after a day of sun andfood.

But the real business of the cruise, in my little world at least, was the 12-meter regatta(www.12metre.com). We were scheduled to leave the Wind Spirit just before 11:30, somy morning was taken up with daydreaming and planning, probably to very little avail.Our host explained that the boats we would be racing on competed in the 1987 LouisVuitton Cup and the Americas Cup. In particular, we would be on either the Canadianentry, True North , or Dennis Conners cup winner, Stars and Stripes . Most of the

participants had never sailed, although a few had, so I began to feel like the elder statesman, always a dangerous position for me.

As we headed out to Stars and Stripes , our boat for the day, our host began assigningduties. Betsy was tailing one backstay winch (a surprisingly demanding job), her sister

Mary was the bartender (which meant water bottles and sodas during the race and beersafter), Marys husband John was a mainsheet grinder (a good choice since hes a bear of a guy) and yours truly was the mainsheet trimmer (an excellent spot for a sixty-somethingwith arthritic knees). Other people were assigned such jobs as primary grinders, backstaygrinders, and timekeeper.

My first impression when I boarded Stars and Stripes was that it seemed smaller than Iexpected, sort of like movie stars when you run into them on the street. The second was


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that it actually seemed simpler in design than I expected. There were the winch pedestals,of course, and the big Barients they powered, looking like upside-down soup kettles insize, but the routing of the lines and the layout of the deck was less intimidating than Ihad feared.

The race itself was well designed for first-time crews. A windward /leeward course withthree upwind legs and two downwinds; no spinnakers; and a couple of experienced big boat racers in the genoa trimmers wells. But the key to our success would be the skipper,Captain Morgan (first name, not last) from Jamaica, who combined great racing skillswith great interpersonal skills. He trained each of us on our jobs, had us go through acouple of tacks for practice, and declared us ready to defend our countrys honor againstthose Canucks in the other boat.

We had a 6-minute pre-start, with the timekeeper counting down the last seconds as weapproached the line at speed, albeit forced to give way because we were on the port tack.After that we were all business, with Morgan calling instructions and every crewmember

tuned to his task. The upwind legs werent tacking duels like I had seen on TV insteadeach helmsman was looking for a favorable wind shift. But the tacks we made were acredit to the team; crisp, quick, and seamanlike.

True North was no slouch either. They led at the first mark, but we caught them on thedownwind leg. Then it was a real seesaw gybing for clear air downwind and searchingfor good air upwind. Finally, on the last upwind leg, Morgan forced True North outsidethe lay line on the right side of the course, kept them there as we tacked back, andsqueezed over the line with two seconds to spare. Dennis Conner would have been proud!

Im sure they could hear our lusty cheer all the way back on Wind Spirit . As we headed back to the mooring, Morgan let those of us who wanted take the helm for a few minutes.Here again, the boat wasnt exactly what I expected. She seemed to take her timeresponding to the helm, while Greyhound is always ready to alter course before Ivemoved the tiller an inch. Maybe Im not used to a wheel yet, or maybe I was still thinkingabout some trimming tasks I could have done better, but at the end of the day I knew itwould take me a long time to really graduate to 12-meters. After all this training andexperience, Im definitely ready for the small time.

Spring, 2008


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junk room, and one is our bedroom. The house isnt huge, and our lot isnt either, so werecomfortable without being pretentious. Its probably a good place to be.

Carwise, we seem to be in the middle of the road. A Honda sedan and a Honda SUVoccupy the driveway, the sedan for Betsy and the SUV for me. With two big dogs and a boat

to trailer, the SUV seems to fill part of the bill, and the sedan is just right for all the other purposes.

Which brings us to boatwise. Greyhound is definitely at the small end of the sailboatspectrum. In fact, its at the small end of all the boats in the marina. I got wind of where Istood, sizewise, when, arranging the slip, I told the marina manager how long it was, and heresponded, Oh, TINY!

Well, Greyhound is pretty small when compared with most of the other boats in the marina, but she looked big enough to me when her previous owner pulled up in front of my housewith her on a trailer. One reason is that she is a real sailboat, with keels instead of a

centerboard, and a real cabin with real berths. No wimpy daysailer here!On the other hand, shes a miniature in a lot of ways. Her mast gets lost among the tall trees

along the floating dock, and you have to duck under the boom on every tack. The cockpitholds two adults comfortably, but four are a pretty tight squeeze.

So, I think she is just the right size for me. Not too big, and not too small. I should behappy, dont you think? Still, the bigger is better bug is still there. Just this week I bid on aColumbia 24 that showed up on eBay. I was winning until the last 15 minutes, but someonestepped up, and I backed away. Maybe, in my old age, Im getting sizewise after all.

Summer, 2008


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I put in a ridiculously low bid, and promptly forgot about it. Later, when I was in Chicagoon business, in the car to OHare Airport, my Blackberry went off, with the message,Congratulations

The old joke is that mixed emotions are watching your mother-in-law drive off the cliff in

your new car. Actually, mixed emotions are buying a sailboat on Ebay. I could hear myself saying, Oh, cool! and Oh, darn! several times over the next few minutes.

The pictures of the boat looked very promising, but my state of mind all depended on afirst-hand examination. When I was able to get to the yard, she was all I had hoped for, andmore. The hull was in very good shape for a boat more than 30 years old, the standingrigging must have been replaced within the last ten years, and the jib furler looked brandnew. The new Greyhound was a keeper. Oh, cool!

So I pulled the sails out of the cabin and sent the genoa off for some minor repairs. I painted the bottom and waxed the topsides. I put her new name on her. I poked around

below decks and above, and finally she was ready to launch. The boatyard picked the newGreyhound up in a giant forklift and deposited her in the water, with me in the cockpit. Imotored to a transient berth and set about rigging her.

The next day, a Sunday, I planned to sail her down from Verplanck to Tarrytown. I wasworried that we might have a typical windless sultry summer day, but I should have known

better. The winds were 20 knots, right in our face. Fortunately, I had an experienced sailor as a crew, but we had a bit of a wild ride down the Hudson. The Ranger is a LOT more boatthan the Alacrity. Ill definitely think twice before singlehanding this baby.

Now Im embarked on all the fix-ups and upgrades of a new boat. The Alacrity is up for sale, with some people poking around. So Im no longer a twin-keeler, but I still plan towrite this column. We cant let an extra keel come between us, can we? Ive only graduated- I havent left the family.

Autumn, 2008


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The Learning Curve

As a consultant I have become quite familiar with the learning curve. In fact, itswhat keeps me in business.

My clients hire me, not because I know everything about their business or their technology, but because I can pick it up faster than most people. When I start on a

project, lots of decisions have already been made. Almost always, the software packagehas been selected. Often the implementation team has been assembled. Sometimes the

project methodology has been selected. Once in a while the project has actually begun.

So I seldom get to run a project from scratch. In addition to learning about the business rationale and the budget, I generally have to learn whats been done right,whats been done wrong, what can be fixed, and what has to be thrown out. Its excitingand challenging.

It helps that Im both curious and analytic. Where is the data for this applicationcoming from? Where is it going? What kinds of business was this application designedfor? What has to be done to adapt it to this business? Who needs to be kept in the loop onthe project? The answers to all these questions may be different from what I expect, or even what people on the project tell me, but the answers are essential. Lots to learn!

Well, it turns out that the same learning curve applies to buying a boat; more so aused boat, and even more so a boat bought on Ebay. But thats just what I did, so I amnow climbing up yet another curve.

This one began before I bought the boat, a Ranger 26. Actually, it began manyyears ago, as I was researching some interesting older brands, and noticed the rave re-views of boats designed by Gary Mull. That bit of data was stored in the back of mymemory, ready to pop up when I saw this boat on Ebay in the middle of the summer.

Having looked at hundreds of boats on Ebay, and having bid on a few, I felt prettyconfident of what Id bought, especially at the price I paid. But theres nothing like thefirst visit to what is now your boat to get your heart started.

This time, everything worked out. A cursory inspection revealed no obvious problems except a rather chalky gelcoat. There was even a ladder lying under the boat, soI climbed aboard. Here, too, the news was mostly good. The previous owner hadobviously taken good care of her.

The Lexan hatchboards, massive compared to my Alacritys plywood one,revealed a real saloon, not the tiny cuddy in the Alacrity, although I still couldnt standerect in it. And a real head, instead of a Porta-Potty. I wanted to explore everything, butfirst I needed to launch her so the summer storage charges would stop accumulating.


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That meant some exterior work, such as removing the old name (Moon Dance)and replacing it with Greyhound. One thing I learned right away is that lettering looksmuch bigger on the boat than it does in the catalog.

Another thing I learned was that a fin-keeler is much easier to bottom-paint than a

twin keeler no more crawling between the trailer and the hull, painting upside downover my head. With a quick coat of anti-fouling and some cursory polishing of thetopsides, I was ready to get out of the boatyard and back to my marina.

Well, almost. First I had to rig her. The genoa had a luff tape designed for theFurlex furler, but I had never raised it before, so I spent a frustrating hour unjamming thetape when I wasnt careful enough. But it was finally up and furled, and I brought Brian,an experienced sailor, to help me get her downriver to her new home.

A good thing, too. I planned our sail to coincide with the ebb tide, figuring thatwed need help in the typical Hudson summer zephyrs. Instead we pounded through 20-

knot breezes right on the nose, with the bow wave washing over the foot of the jib until Ihad the good sense to reef it after an hour or so. Sometimes the learning curve is prettysteep. On the other hand, I discovered quite by accident that the Barient primaries wereactually two-speeds. Sometimes there is no learning curve at all.

With Greyhound safely in her berth, I really began ascending the learning curve. Idiscovered a wasps nest in the lazarette vent when I was routing the fuel lines for theoutboard. Oops! I couldnt flush the toilet until I opened the valve that lets in theseawater. Hmm! I finally discovered the water tank under one of the settees by tracing thetubing from the sink, and filled it with the hose. Awright!

Gradually, Greyhound is becoming less of a stranger and more of a friend. Shesails like a dream I can stand in the companionway while she steers herself, with only anudge or two on the tiller with my knee to keep her on course.

There is still a lot to learn, of course. Brian got the depth sounder working, but notthe knot meter, while we were sailing down the river, but I havent been able to get anyof the electricals to work. I still have to trace all the wiring and piping under the berthsand settees who knows what Ill find there. And I bought a plow anchor, a rode and aroller, but I havent figured out how or where to mount them yet.

Right now, though, I really want to learn by sailing. I want to nurse Greyhound through light breezes and push her through stiff winds. I want to singlehand as well astake out a bunch of friends. I want to see how close she will go to the wind and I want totry out my whisker pole on a run. Needless to say, I think Ill be on this particular learning curve for a long time.

Winter, 2008


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Finally I had arranged everything, and it was time to get Greyhound to her winter

home. I took most of the stuff that had accumulated in the half season Id had her home, and made arrangements to deliver her up to Ossining. Unable to arrange any crewfor the delivery date, I decided to singlehand it. That decision began to look a little

suspect as the weatherman predicted a soueaster for the Saturday I had to sail.However, he said it would hit late in the day while I was sailing early, and I was goingnorth, so I took a chance and set out.

As it turned out, I neednt have worried. Although it was overcast, the breeze wasmanageable, ten to twelve knots, and Greyhound galloped up the river. There was hardlyanother boat to be seen, we outran the following swells, and I successfully avoided thelittle island in the river that Id never seen before. I was exhilarated, and was a little sorryto reach the marina entrance in about two hours.

I was a bit worried about docking, since Id never done it in this marina singlehanded,

but the gas dock was just inside the breakwater so I managed to slide in. Themanagement assigned me a temporary slip in the middle of the marina, and I was able toget in there with no bumps or bruises, in spite of the freshening breeze. As I rode home inthe car with my wife, I was more than a little pleased with myself. Missionaccomplished! Later in the day things really kicked up outside, so much so that a largetree came down just up the street, so I was doubly glad I had made the trip when I did.

This past weekend I found out that Greyhound had been hauled, so I went up to finishthe winter prep. I found her in the middle of an aluminum forest, packed into a collectionof sailboats, looking like a flock of swans ready to fly south. I had built a PVC pipe frameto support the tarp over the cockpit, so I muscled that and the tarp up the ladder in thedrizzle. The hardest part of the job was wrestling the outboard off the transom and intomy car. Funny, it didnt feel this heavy when I was putting it on during the summer!

I ran the motor at home to flush out the salt water, inflated the sorry looking fenders,stowed the docklines, and headed upstairs to watch some football. Greyhounds ready for winter, and so am I.

Spring, 2009

Documents

Reflections on the Water