Gone Sailing (John, 09/2007)

Three weeks ago we sailed away from our cottage in Nova Scotia where we had spent most of the summer while Morgan’s Cloud went round and round her mooring and we did boat chores in an effort to tie up the loose ends left over from our refit.

As we left the inlet bound west for Maine and a six week shake down cruise of the outer Bay of Fundy, a little voice in my head was saying “It has been so long since we were out there cruising, I wonder if I still like it? What if I miss long showers, flush toilets and the Internet. What if I get bored? What if I have forgotten how to cruise?” A horrible little voice calling into question the worth of thousands of hours of refit work over three winters.

But you know what? Cruising feels good. Damned good. Even better than I remembered. I’m having fun in so many ways: The joy of sailing a great boat and tweaking the rig to get the best out of her. Talking to interesting people like the offshore tuna/swordfish fishermen—think The Hungry Ocean and The Perfect Storm —and the retired lifeboat coxswain that we met at Clarks Harbour at the southwest corner of Nova Scotia. A fast overnight sail when the old teamwork between Phyllis and I came back. Walks on incredible deserted beaches at Cape Sable and Roque Island. Dinners with friends in our snug cabin. Nights spent at anchor in sheltered rock bound coves. Visits to offshore islands like Matinicus and Isle au Haut. Hikes on paths and bushwhacking through woods. Trying to capture it all by taking 1500 photographs.

I love this stuff.

The Journey is the Reward (Phyllis, 08/2007)

Though John and I always feel totally disconnected with our destination after flying somewhere, when sailing from place to place on Morgan’s Cloud we feel like active participants in the small bit of the world surrounding us.

The slower pace and lack of hustle and bustle out at sea allows us to see and smell more acutely and think much more clearly. After a few days at sea in our own little universe (Morgan’s Cloud and the surrounding waters), we start to live in the present instead of anticipating our arrival at our destination or thinking about where we just were. Zen Buddhism talks about ‘living in the moment’ and we both find this easiest to practice at sea.

As John often says, "Sailing in your own boat isn’t just a way to get from Point A to Point B—the journey is the reward".

Puke Therapy (John, 07/2007)

We are in the third year of a one year refit and up until two weeks ago it was getting to me—big time. As far as I was concerned, all marine equipment was junk and almost everyone in the marine business was a crook. Our boat seemed to be a collection of half finished projects and disappointing new gear; albeit with a few shining exceptions.

Last week a buddy from Bermuda and I (Phyllis drove our truck) sailed across the Gulf of Maine, around Cape Sable and on to Mahone Bay in Nova Scotia. For the first part of the trip the weather was a bit challenging but not really bad: a weak front, some thunder storms that we managed to avoid, and thick fog. The wind never got over 30 knots and was in the 20 to 25 knot range for most of the trip.

However, the Gulf of Maine is seriously tidal (due to the influence of the world record tides in the Bay of Fundy) and the resulting currents mixed with the wind greeted us with a confused sea as soon we cleared Penobscot Bay. Within three hours I had had to change all my clothes, due to the biggest and most unexpected ducking I have taken from a wave since I gave up ocean racing, and we were both seriously and extravagantly sea sick.

I’m not talking a little green here. I’m talking a full on barf-fest with multiple trips to the rail, sometimes with a full mouth as we struggled not to blow lunch below or into the cockpit. I won the truly gross award, despite my buddy’s best efforts to top me, by liberally spraying the dodger as I struggled at the mast to crank in a reef.

Now, after the trip, I look around Morgan’s Cloud and see a boat that is faster, easier to sail, more comfortable and safer than she was before the refit. Quite simply she is an even better boat than she has ever been. Sure there are many things left to do but they are mostly trivial, and now I can see that.

Would I have experienced this change in attitude if we had had an easy broad reach on a moonlit night? I suspect not. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s just that it feels so good when you stop puking. Or maybe it’s because there comes a time in a refit when you just have to get out there and bang around a bit to regain your perspective.

Messing Around in Boats (John, 06/2007)

Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in our neighbour's Boston Whaler sounding out the inlet in Nova Scotia our cabin is on and then carefully positioning a plastic bottle anchored by a rock as a marker for the barge that will drop our new mooring.

Getting to the Whaler required using a very small and tippy round bottom rowing dinghy. As I accomplished this task with all the grace of an elephant on roller-skates it struck me that part of my clumsiness might have something to do with it being the first time I had been on the water since leaving the Superyacht Vivid, which I had been guide/navigator on for a trip to Greenland, in August of last year. Ten months without getting afloat is a personal record for me since getting my first boat, a rowing dinghy, at age eight and way too long.

After about two hours of happily swinging a lead line, dragging the marker around to get it positioned just right and covering myself in mud and salt water, Phyllis brought lunch to our wharf, which we ate in the Whaler, drifting around with the engine off. As we munched sandwiches and contemplated my handiwork, she commented “you look so happy and relaxed back on the water”. She is right. “There's nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . . half so much worth doing as simply messing around in boats”*.

I shall try to remember that tomorrow when we return to Maine and the seemingly unending refit.

*Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows (River Rat to Mole)

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