Article Surfing Archive

How a cruise aboard a bucket-sized boat brought a man close to death and reunited with life.

note: A "lassie" is a pretty, young Irish woman or "lass" who loves sailors, especially sea-going men who write about sailing, which could certainly include me, since I am writing about sailing right now. No, not right now while you read this, before that. Right now my time, as pen meets paper in a weathered journal. Alone, out on the open ocean.

My Dear Lassie:

I have been at sea for over a month now, but it feels like an eternity. Our years of warm memories insulate my soul, while longing for you stings, like the ice-cold precipitation pelting the face and hands. Winds taunt my eyes to tear. Blurred is the dizzying horizon of white - capped seas. Soaring skyward, then nosing straight down, our 20 foot sailboat is devoured by monstrous waves. I struggle for balance. Crashing over the bow heaves a wall of cold salt water as hard as ice. As fast as the cockpit drains, it fills. Our vessel, Sea Dog's Tale, winces, creaks and groans. She says "I can't take much more." The gray and black sky is ominous. My international canine crew - Andy from Labrador and Atlas from Pomerania - sensed impending doom long ago. Down below, they've escaped the gut wrenching, bow-wow inducing horror with a few games at the bowling alley. This is not to imply that a 20' sailboat can contain a bowling alley, it's just that creative interior design and strategic placement of mirrors creates the illusion of space.

Our bleak prognosis may have moved them to skate some laps around the regulation sized ice rink - for perhaps their last time.

I know what you are thinking - a bowling alley AND an ice rink, how could that be?! Let's just say that for most of us, perception is reality. As far as we are concerned, this yacht has all the amenities. It is doubtful that Sea Dogs Andy and Atlas are playing hockey - my favorite sport - as they can barely lace their skates, much less hold a hockey stick.

Making matters worse, the spirit of my faithful crew is debilitated - snapped like a twig - leaving me to summon all the emotional and physical strength I can muster, for just a sliver of hope. The full weight of the boat and her crew now rests on my shoulders. And we're sinking.

Like the water, the charcoal night engulfs our tiny vessel - so brilliant when we first set sail - now not even a flicker illuminated by the hopelessly meek red and green bow lights. Clinging to the tiller with a death grip for hours on end, my arm protests. I gaze hypnotically into the compass, awaiting the tale of our future. The vessel, crew and I endure a pounding, every second of every minute of every hour. Time slowly crawls by. My eyelids are weighted by the strain of countless hours at the helm.

So this is how it's all going to end. Desperately I plead to the Almighty to tell you how much you mean to me. But this prayer would have to wait. I collapse in an exhausted heap.

Hours, perhaps days later, warmth on my unshaven face summons me like a siren's song. Wobbly legs grope for footing. Astonished, I witness a blue horizon, calm water, sun beaming from above and land! Yes, land! My feet follow my body as I stumble down stairs below deck to blurt out "Land!!, land!!"

Andy and Atlas exchange peripheral glances, revealing the knowing skepticism of court-appointed psychiatrists evaluating a blabbering fool. Reluctantly, they trudge up each step as though it were Mt. Everest. On the deck, we take in our surroundings with disbelief. Then gradually smiles creep across our faces, revealing unrestrained smugness. Giddy laughter and back-slapping soon follow. We've persevered an overwhelming adversary and won! So this is the Promised Land! Hands in paws, we dance a festive jig. Around and around.

The jubilant and spiritual air is sheared - like the tearing sound of wind-torn sails - by the whine of an approaching outboard motor. Turning our heads in unison toward the stern, we see a fisherman's small boat plow a gentle wake. A frail older man - with crooked, coffee stained teeth, stubble that would impress a porcupine, a plaid jacket too big for his aching frame and a sideways cocked baseball cap, worn for effect not function - throttles the motor's noise down. Matter of factly he mumbles "Heard at the marina your anchor got caught," as though somebody might be eavesdropping on this embarrassing disclosure. I pondered "Where is he going with this? From where did this guy come? How did he get out here, the middle of nowhere? What marina? We had been at sea for a month!" Nothing made sense and I wasn't sure I wanted it to.

As if on cue, he seemed to reply to my mental rambling: "Your anchor! See, the line's pulled taut from the bow. Thought you could use a hand." Looking to the bow, sure enough, there the anchor line was - holding us steady in the water. "I'll pull you back to the marina, if you like," he sheepishly offered, unsure of how his graciousness would be received by this confused crew. How did the anchor get out? How could it when the dogs were below deck and yours truly passed out? Were other forces at work? And how did this soft-spoken, ocean wise and weathered man find us? What's this about a marina and where are we? Am I delusional from fatigue?

"The Salisbury marina's only two miles to the north." He gestured hesitantly, as if he were trying to break the news gently - to help us save face. Looking around we were still stunned. Realizing our navigationally challenged state, he went on: "The folks at the marina said you set off for the North Atlantic, but got your anchor stuck about a month ago. Here! - he tossed up a bag of sandwiches - thought you might be hungry by now."

So that's it!

Preoccupied by what awaited on our global voyage, we forgot to pull our anchor after the first night in the Chesapeake Bay. We hadn't moved since!

Gesturing toward my dogs, who now were too embarrassed to speak, I offered that this being their first time on the water, they still needed fine-tuning of their seamanship. "I imagine you're right," he replied, as he yanked the little motor to life.

Our home - now the grandest place on earth - awaits in the setting sun. I will find my dear Lass quietly reading by the fire, a big comfy cedar bed for the dogs and a whole new world of adventure about which to dream.