Why I keep doing it

Sahula is kicking up her heels. Driven by a fresh westerly breeze, she eagerly surges through the cresting seas. With the Yankee and staysail well eased and two reefs in the mainsail, the speedometer shows 7.5 knots, with frequent surges to 8. Occasional spray flies across the foredeck, turned to sparkling diamonds by the morning sun.

It is not often you get a 25-knot offshore breeze along the north Queensland coast. Normally, the trade winds blow from the southeast which means there can be up to a hundred miles of fetch to build up a sea. Combined with often strong tidal currents, in a fresh breeze, the trade wind seas can be quite boisterous. But today, with this offshore wind, the limited fetch between us and shore means easy sailing. There is one small downside to this. There is a line of large hills just a few miles inshore of us. The steep-sided valleys and ridges channel the wind so it is not from a steady direction. That means instead of putting the windvane in charge, one of us has to take the helm. Ever since we lifted our anchor, David has been steering. For three hours, he has been seated in his favorite position on the windward coaming, gently easing the wheel a few inches one way or the other to keep Sahula perfectly on course. He is obviously loving it as he is grinning ear to ear. I am nestled happily onto the leeward cockpit bench, savoring every minute of this rare treat. The miles tick off as the looming cliffs of Cape Cleveland grow ever closer. We’ve only 40 miles to go to reach our season’s goal. We’ve got a fine wind, a good boat.

Only once do I move from where I have been comfortably watching the wind-sculpted water, the bow wave hissing by. That was when, halfway across the Bowling Green bight, I climb below and boil up water for mid-morning tea and cut two slices of David’s favorite fruit cake. As the morning flows easily by, I am reminded of my very first offshore sailing experience; one carefully engineered by Larry exactly six decades ago.

On that early November evening, a warm, caressing offshore breeze soothed the northwest swells off the coast of Morrow Bay in Southern California. The sweep of gaff sails outlined against sparkling skies competed for my attention with the green glow of bioluminescence in our wake as Larry urged me to try my hand at the wheel. This was the first time I’d been more than 20 miles from shore. Agamemnon, a 36-foot Murray Peterson schooner, beam-reached along, creaming through the seas as only a schooner can, her blocks creaking, her bowsprit trying to kiss the waves.

Larry, at that time, was working as a professional charter and delivery skipper while building his first cruising boat in his spare time. We had known each other for six months. We’d spent more than five of those living together. I’d been asking him to take me along when he delivered boats. Until this night, Larry had made excuses, limiting my sailing experiences to afternoons on various friend’s boats, or in the dinghy he’d helped me acquire as we worked together to build Seraffyn. As we shared the midnight watch on board Agamemnon, I fought to keep my eyes on a star instead of constantly staring at the swinging compass card while I waxed poetical about the moment. Larry put his arm around me and said, “An old friend told me, you’ll go out 10 times and then it happens—a perfect sail—and you’ll keep going out nine times more to recapture that magic.”

It was a half-dozen years and halfway around the world before I learned how carefully Larry had planned my introduction to his world.

We had just sailed into Poole, Dorset, a town on the southern coast of England, and secured at the quay. The main street in this small town runs right along the quay so we’d become a bit of a local attraction. A young man came by and struck up a conversation. Larry invited him on board and soon our visitor stated, “I’m dead keen on going off to the Med. Wife’s willing to give it a try. It’s a long weekend and we’re headed out tomorrow for a test run across the Channel to France. The forecast is pretty bleak—Force 5 or 6 headwinds.”

“I’d can that idea,” Larry stated. “That’s how I ruined sailing for my first girlfriend. Got her wet, scared. Why don’t you just reach over to Cowes. Take her out somewhere special for dinner, then the next day reach back home. Try to make it a fun holiday. That’s how I eased Lin into this life.”

I listened as Larry described my first overnighter on board Agamemnon and then told of the other small ruses he used to lure me into his dream and keep me there until it metamorphosed into mine. The local sailor listened, too. He changed his weekend plans.

It was his wife who came by a few days later. Her eyes twinkled as she told us of their “grand adventure,” up the Solent to Cowes, a prelude to what became several years of successful cruising.

Today, as Sahula rushes northward towards Townsville, I reflect on the realities of voyaging under sail. Larry was right. For every day like this one, there will be many that are far more challenging, some that are downright uncomfortable and difficult. Though right now we are enjoying dream sailing, in the back of my mind is the awareness that in two or three months, when cyclones become a real threat, we have to beat south away from the tropics. Then, there are bound to be days when I wonder why I willingly go to sea in small sailboats. But at this moment, a moment of sailing perfection, I silently thank the man who eased me into what became a sailing addiction. Then I turn to David and say, “My turn to keep her moving.”

He hands over the wheel. I gradually begin to feel the rhythm that keeps Sahula moving at top speed. Yes, this is a one-in-ten-day. And yes, it is more than enough to keep me coming back for more

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