The Soul of a Boat                     

Of course, there is no such thing as a “Soul” for an inanimate object.  Any good Psychiatrist will tell you that it is just a projection of your own perception.  But, depending on who you ask,  some people will argue that, absolutely, a boat does indeed have a soul.  A unique personality.  Whenever I first step aboard an unfamiliar floating machine, I get a feel for the vessel.  Sometimes I can tell right away if she feels good or bad.  Other times I have to wait and see.

I stepped aboard a Catamaran once that screamed “Charter Boat!”  She had all the signs, all the scars.  There were mismatched batteries under the aft berth and photocopies of charts in a three ring binder on the Navigation Station.  The new purchaser swore that the boat had never been chartered and that he just bought her from a private owner.  Immediately, she felt tired and cranky to me.  It was probably just a projection of my own perception, right?

The sailboat my wife and I live on, love on, sail across the Caribbean and occasionally race, has a good soul all to her own.  She is a sturdy vessel with a sea kindly motion.  When we go away for a few days, she welcomes us back in her own unique manner.  As soon as we slide open the hatch, the most intoxicating scent of fresh cut teak fills your head and we both look at each other and say, “Ahhh, There’s no place like home.” 

A few years back, one of my Uncles built a wooden boat.  But, not just any wooden boat.  He fabricated an almost completely accurate “Put-Put” boat.  These were the type of motorboats one would have found plying the marshes, bayous and rivers of south Louisiana over a hundred years ago.  Except for a few modern power tools, some epoxy and a plywood bottom, she was constructed in the same manner the old timers would have used back before the turn of the century. 

The first step would be to fell a 100 year old Cypress tree.  Next you would slice the trunk into useful pieces and stack the wood to dry.  When it was ready, you cut it to size, hammer a bunch of little brass nails into it, and voila, a leaky 25 foot noisemaker would be parting water hyacinths in the Atchafalaya Basin.

My Uncle found just such a Cypress log buried in a mud bank one day.  He immediately realized its value and dug it out.  After transporting it to the lumber mill and chopping it up into planks, he stacked it all in his storage shed out back.  Years went by and the lumber slumbered.  I asked him why he built a boat with all that beautiful Cypress instead of, say, cabinets, or furniture.  “I didn’t decide dat!”  He practically scolded me.  “I was back in da shed one night and dat wood started talking to me, Podnuh.  Da next morning, I started cuttin’ wood and a few weeks later, we went for a boat ride.” 

I told the tale of the “talking wood” to a buddy of mine from Colorado.  He happens to be a Contractor and Carpenter.  I concluded the story with “That’s an example of the family I come from… They are all crazy!”  His eyes lit up and he smiled, “Absolutely wood talks to you!”  Great, another nutball. 

“Wood tells you what it wants to be - just like a rock tells a sculpture what kind of statue is hiding inside.  You just have to listen to it.  Sure, I too believe that a boat does indeed have a soul.”

So, OK.  Maybe that Cypress tree was chopped down back in the mid to late 1800’s with the intention of becoming a boat.  Maybe it always wanted to be a little boat instead of a mighty tree.  Certain events happened and the log was lost for a long time.  When it was discovered and cared for properly, could it have re-joined its original journey?  Maybe it was a tree with the soul of a boat?  Maybe I really am as crazy as my genealogy would indicate.  As my Mom always says, “ The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree!” 

The Emily T started out as an investment, I think.  She was placed in a few different charter companies over the years and of course, used by many different people.  Her main problem was, she was trapped in charter prison.  Some complicated legal matter between two charter companies and three different countries had her chained to a concrete dock and her steering wheel removed.  This little lady was still young, but she had many hard miles on her.  My first impression was that this was a clean boat ready to go out for a day sail, but lacking the luxuries a boat “lover” would throw at her.  No fancy electronics.  Not even an autopilot.  No expensive air conditioning or Generators.  No wind generator or Dinghy davits hanging off the stern.  She looked to me like a stock boat, straight from the dealership, with a good amount of use from inexperienced crews.

She was not exactly maintained in “Bristol” condition either.  The charter boat guys kept the necessities functional, but the harsh salty environment had made an impact.  Some parts were rusted off.  Others were rusted on, unable to be removed.  During my first 30 minutes aboard I found two broken pieces of hardware lying on deck.  It took me another 30 minutes to verify exactly where the broken fasteners originated from.  The turning blocks on the traveler were bent inboard, evidence of many accidental jibes.  The countertops had knife marks from someone not using a cutting board.  Yes, she had seen lots of use.

Because of all the borderline abuse, the sensation I immediately picked up could best be described as - defensive.  It felt like she didn’t like me.  I know that sounds weird to try and place emotion to an object, but follow me a bit more.  Our relationship began with this tension.  Similar to when you meet a new co-worker and you are both charged with collaborating on the same task,  or project.  Neither person fully trusts the other at first.  And that’s how it was the first day for Emily T and I.

When she was finally unleashed from her charter prison, I took the wheel and was immediately nauseated.  The helm didn’t feel like any Catalina I’d ever driven.  The torque from the prop wash was very unusual.  She squeaked and rattled south across the Sir Francis Drake Channel.  Once we made our way out into the Caribbean Sea the swells began to roll Emily T around a bit.  I trimmed the main sail and handed the wheel over to the first mate, then I went below, pulled up the floor boards and sat and just watched the keel bolts for about 15 minutes.  Satisfied with that inspection, I returned on deck and unrolled the jib.  The shape was all wrong.  That sail did not belong on that boat.  I moved the jib car to a different position, tied a short pennant to the tack and adjusted the halyard tension.  Not exactly perfect, but much better.    

 

I will be the first to admit that I do ask much of the vessels I command.  I ask a good deal from the people I sail with also.  To stretch just outside of your comfort level is a good thing, I believe.  So, I did push Emily T a little bit that first day.  Close reaching into 15 to 20 knots of wind and three foot seas is not punishment.  Modern boats are designed to do just that.  But, it is not comfortable to be heeling way over and punching into waves with the anchor roller.  She complained a little about the workout by popping another rusty bolt off of the boom vang. 

We docked 58 miles later in Fajardo, Puerto Rico to provision and over the next two days, I crawled around in the bilges to clean, inspect and install an auto pilot.  Emily T thanked me for her additional equipment by chewing on my knuckles with her fiberglass teeth.  I dove underwater with a mask to inspect the bottom and barnacles cut at my feet and knees.  During the swim, I discovered why the steering felt so weird.  She had been run aground so many times, her keel was chewed up and the rudder post was bent.  By the end of the second day I think I was bleeding from all four appendages.  It seemed to me like she still didn’t like me much, but, she was beginning to warm up to me a little.

Once we were ready for sea, I had a quiet moment with my new command.  Some would call it a prayer, others insanity.  I gave her the truth.  “You are going back to the US,” I whispered,  “and I’m the guy that’s gonna take you there.  You keep me alive and I’ll keep you alive, alright?”. 

Silence.  

“Deal?”  I asked the little plastic boat.

Silence.

“EMILY!”  I shouted.

“K, K, K. K…”  a halyard clanged on the mast.

It rained constantly our first day at sea and ole’Emma let the water just come on in.  My gear bag took a pretty good drenching from the overhead hatch in the forward berth and I thought of it like - she had peed on my possessions.  This stubborn young girl was giving me a rough time.  But, I am a patient man.

I tracked down and quieted all the noises I could.  Folded towels were placed between doors to stop the rattles.  Additional foam insulation was added to the refrigerator door to help lock in the cold.  A few strategically placed bungee cords held the bread and chips in the microwave oven cabinet, and the little boat began to realize that, maybe we did share a common goal after all.  At least that’s how it felt to me.

She kept complaining, but less every day.  The second day, she decided to shake the lowest baton of the main sail out of the mast slider car.  Not long after that, she tried to lose the sticks that held the Lazy Jack sail cover straight.  After dark she shook the furling line off of the drum, so we couldn’t roll in the jib.

The next day the jib began to unravel and I spent a few hours with needle and thread hemming Emma’s skirt.  Evidently she did not appreciate my sewing talents and ripped even more of the jib apart during the next night, in protest I am sure.

The third day she decided she didn’t want to hear the engine anymore and shut it down.  With no motor, we had no way to cool the refrigerator or charge the batteries.  No battery power means no lights, or autopilot, or radio.  We HAD to have an operating engine.  I cleared the fuel line, bled the system and in a couple of hours, the Yanmar Diesel was purring a monotonous tone again.  Every time a new obstacle popped up, I took a patient, caring, appropriate repair, and the ole girl slowly began to come around.

We tried to stay out of the sun, sail fast, and catch fish while EmilyT plotted her next move.  Somewhere south of the Dominican Republic, a four foot Wahoo grabbed our hook and we celebrated a day with nothing broken by feasting on a big salad and delicious fresh grilled fish.  Then after sunset, the wind died and I was reduced to moving a sailboat with diesel power instead of wind power.  This never makes me happy.  Evidently it didn’t make EmilyT happy either, because she killed the refrigerator compressor.  When is the worst time to loose refrigeration?  When 10 pounds of fresh fish is packed on the cold plates!  After some quick troubleshooting, I figured out how to “hotwire” the compressor clutch and keep our food supply unspoiled.

Between Jamaica and Grand Cayman one night, after midnight, She played her wildest trick, and the jib ripped in two.  Right across the middle.  There would not be enough thread in the sewing kit for me to even fake a repair.  And the way she kept killing the engine every few days - this could be disaster for any delivery skipper.

I think that was the final act of defiance for her.  Because, three days before boarding the plane for Tortolla, I stopped at the resale shop and purchased an old used Jib.  Yes, I just happened to bring a spare sail with me.  Who the hell would bring an extra Jib, just in case?  After a few modifications it was hoisted and put to use.  She finally realized that I was not like the other Captains that abused her.  At least that is how I felt about it. 

She quit complaining and ultimately accepted what was left of our brief relationship.  For the balance of the delivery, it was “smooth sailing”.   Or actually, smooth motoring.  The wind did not cooperate and for our last 8 days and the engine turned a constant 1,800 RPM.  But, that’s fine. EmilyT and I now trusted each other.  I cared for whatever little issues popped up, and She carried me over the surface of the mile deep waters.  We stopped at the fuel dock in Isla Mujeres, Mexico and left the motor running.  I pumped fuel while the crew topped off water tanks, and we were off and running again after less than a one hour stop.

About 15 hours out of Isla Mujeres we were lucky enough to catch a beautiful Dorado.  Once again the fridge was packed with fresh food for the last third of the trip.  I made Ceveche with some of the Dorado and we grilled the last of the Wahoo with black beans and rice.  The batteries were holding a good charge, the fridge was freezing the fish and life was good aboard Emily T for the remainder of the passage across the Gulf of Mexico.

Our last night together, the wind returned at a perfect 15 knots out of the South.  After 200 hours of run time the engine was finally allowed to rest.  What a glorious event sailing is!  She galloped along at 8 knots under a blanket of stars and a full set of canvass on a beam reach toward the Texas coastline.  At dawn we quietly entered the Galveston Jetties and were treated to smooth flat water.  The shipping traffic increased just north of the Intracoastal Water Way and we reluctantly restarted the engine for safety reasons. 

It idled for less than two minutes, then slowed, stumbled, and died.

The young girl had carried us as far as she could.  She allowed us to sail the Caribbean Sea, from the Virgin Islands to the Yucatan of Mexico, then motor from Isla Mujeres to Texas.  She delivered us into calm shallow water before giving up on her power plant.  That fuel filter could have clogged up anywhere, at anytime.  Perhaps when other ship traffic was near and we needed a working engine.  Or maybe when the tide was going out and the wind died, leaving us adrift looking at a lee shore.  Or possibly when we were in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, 200 miles from any land and out of contact with civilization.  But not Emma.  She kept us safe and kept us moving in the right direction until we were in the calm confines of Galveston Bay. 

EmilyT and I had an enjoyable relationship for almost three weeks.  She will always be remembered in my mind as a rough lady.  A tough customer.  It was hard to convince her that I had her best interest in mind.  But in the end, I believe she came to like me.

At least, that’s what my shrink said….

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