So, when I get comments from folks I've just met like this, "hi, nice to meet you, please update your blog", I know its been too long. So here we go.
Summer update: wow, where did that go. I could tell you about me sleeping in the cockpit of our boat fearing the anchor will drag in the middle of the night with two anchors down in Block Island. Or I could tell you about waking up at midnight to the sounds of other boats dragging anchor just two weeks ago in Napatree, Rhode Island. Or I could just admit that anchors scare me a bit.
I could tell you about the diesel engine trouble I've had. A bad fuel pump led to a leaky barb that led to some diesel in my bilge. Environmentally friendly, ha. Or I could tell you my diesel engine scares me too.
By the looks of things, you could reasonably conclude I am a crappy sailor. I believe it is the fear that makes me a good sailor. I always look for something to go wrong and therefore, hopefully prevent them from doing so. That or I can blame Dad.
You see, I was scarred as a kid, picture this: an inky black night in Gloucester. I am awoke by my mom and told not only to put my life jacket on, but get my little brothers on too. So I maneuver mine with no problems, but my still-sleeping little brother's life jacket isn't going on so well. Like trying to put a tube top on a snake.
I finally do get it on him and look out of the companionway hatch to see Mom at the wheel (saying, "I can't see anything in the dark" we'd later learn this was glaucoma) and my dad stomping on the deck of our boat, knife in hand to cut lines we've become entangled with. Our anchor had dragged, or drug.
It has taken me this long to realize, someone out there has a story that picks up where mine leaves off. It starts with, "so we awoke to our anchor line being cut by this madman" and goes off from there.
My story actually ends with my parents being freaked out and anchoring just outside the harbor and skulking away at first light. Well before the authorities could get involved. Oddly enough, this same trip saw my Dad threatening to throw our boat hook at speed boats that kept waking us in a small river. But that is another story.
It is with these memories (aka scars) that make me the yachtsman I am: paranoid. Paranoid I will go bump in the night. Paranoid my kids will awake to frenzy. Paranoid I will become the knife-wielding madman on the bow cutting and running.
The funny thing is I look back on my paranoia and think of them as the fun I've had this summer.
Summer update: wow, where did that go. I could tell you about me sleeping in the cockpit of our boat fearing the anchor will drag in the middle of the night with two anchors down in Block Island. Or I could tell you about waking up at midnight to the sounds of other boats dragging anchor just two weeks ago in Napatree, Rhode Island. Or I could just admit that anchors scare me a bit.
I could tell you about the diesel engine trouble I've had. A bad fuel pump led to a leaky barb that led to some diesel in my bilge. Environmentally friendly, ha. Or I could tell you my diesel engine scares me too.
By the looks of things, you could reasonably conclude I am a crappy sailor. I believe it is the fear that makes me a good sailor. I always look for something to go wrong and therefore, hopefully prevent them from doing so. That or I can blame Dad.
You see, I was scarred as a kid, picture this: an inky black night in Gloucester. I am awoke by my mom and told not only to put my life jacket on, but get my little brothers on too. So I maneuver mine with no problems, but my still-sleeping little brother's life jacket isn't going on so well. Like trying to put a tube top on a snake.
I finally do get it on him and look out of the companionway hatch to see Mom at the wheel (saying, "I can't see anything in the dark" we'd later learn this was glaucoma) and my dad stomping on the deck of our boat, knife in hand to cut lines we've become entangled with. Our anchor had dragged, or drug.
It has taken me this long to realize, someone out there has a story that picks up where mine leaves off. It starts with, "so we awoke to our anchor line being cut by this madman" and goes off from there.
My story actually ends with my parents being freaked out and anchoring just outside the harbor and skulking away at first light. Well before the authorities could get involved. Oddly enough, this same trip saw my Dad threatening to throw our boat hook at speed boats that kept waking us in a small river. But that is another story.
It is with these memories (aka scars) that make me the yachtsman I am: paranoid. Paranoid I will go bump in the night. Paranoid my kids will awake to frenzy. Paranoid I will become the knife-wielding madman on the bow cutting and running.
The funny thing is I look back on my paranoia and think of them as the fun I've had this summer.
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