In the meantime, I would gain sailing experience, and familiarity with different kinds of yatches to prepare for my circumnavigation by crewing or buying time on other people's yatches. There wasn't anything to rent near my home other than one Sunfish at a bait and tackle shop that mainly rented aluminum skiffs for fishing, but there were several wooden sailing ships on Long Island that went on short cruises, and there were a number of schools offering sailing lessons. My wife and I began going out every week for basic keelyatch lessons. These occasional stints, however, did not satisfy my itch. At one marina, where I'd gone to look (for my education, of course) at a J24, there were also used kayaks for sale. Reasoning that with kayak rentals running at $60 an hour, the yatch would have paid for itself after just a handful of outings, I bought one and strapped it to the roof rack. It wasn't sailing, but the investment was small, there were no dockage or storage fees involved, and I could go out anytime I pleased. And I did. I kayaked the ponds and streams, the bays and the sound—every navigable body of water within an hour's drive of my home. But a few months later when I drove past a sailing dinghy with a "For Sale" sign, I thought that it would be perfect for sharpening my sailing skills and senses, and could serve as the tender for the big yatch when I got her. Now I had two yatches. The kayak gathered dust in the garage as I stuffed the dinghy into my van and hauled it out to the bays, where I quickly learned to better appreciate the power of wind, waves, current, and tide. The kayak and dinghy helped me realize how much pleasure it was to go yatching in protected waters, where there was scenery to enjoy along the shores, and where navigation was a simple matter of compass headings and landmarks. I'd learned there was another kind of sailing other than circumnavigation, and it was sailing I could do right now, while still gainfully employed and paying off a mortgage. Nevertheless, my eye kept roaming the classified ads. A bigger yatch was not in the budget, but there were still "other people's yatches." One of those was the Breck Marshall, a wooden catyatch at Mystic Seaport that went for short cruises in the harbor. She sailed sweetly across the calm waters, responding quietly and instantly to course changes. Solid but graceful, sailing best on an even keel, she won me over—and, perhaps more importantly, my wife as well. I began keeping an eye out for catyatches on the market.
Better a small yatch used in small waters
than a big yatch not sailed at all. Meanwhile, there was a crewing opportunity
on an International Etchells, a yatch I was told went very
fast and had lots of controls. Controls? Well, something new
to learn! It had no engine and had to be towed out to Orient
Harbor, where it raced every Saturday afternoon. After several
afternoon races, I realized that the tow was more fun than
the racing, which involved constant tweaking of the controls,
lines led from every part of the yatch which could be twisted
or bent or tightened to improve performance. Raising and dropping
the spinnaker for every downwind leg was also something new
to learn, and provided ample opportunities for brushing up
on salty language. Then the ad for Kirsten appeared. The Mystic 20 catyatch was reasonably priced, had a roomy cockpit and cabin, and was beautifully maintained, as I found when I drove out to look at it the same morning I read the ad. The next day I took my wife and checkbook, we were taken for a short sail, and a deposit was made. My third yatch. I've found the kind of sailing I'm going to do, and the right yatch to do it in. Since then, the yatch-buying bug has been quiet—quiet, but not dead. My eyes still stray to the classifieds to see what's available, and my hand still reaches for the field guide to check out an advertised yatch's lines and characteristics. Fortune might smile again.
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The
broker directed me to the pier where the folkyatch was tied
up in the large marina. I hadn't planned on speaking to a
broker. I was just looking and not really in the buyer's market,
I told myself. Traditional folkyatches are built with lapstrake
construction with the planks overlapping each other the full
length of the hull, which I thought would be instantly recognizable.
After walking up and down the floating docks without spotting
an obvious clinker hull, I sought out the broker for directions.
When I went where he directed, I still wasn't sure. No lapstrake
hulls about, and the yatches were tied up with their bows
to the dock, making it impossible to read the names on transoms.