The western outskirts of Hamburg, Germany. Latitude 53 north, roughly the same parallel as Edmonton, Alberta. The air is chill and coarse. A brisk westerly reddens cheeks but can’t wipe the smiles from Jenny Felshart’s and Mareike Schiffler’s faces.
Let’s admit it: Misfits are fun. Exiled to the fringes, they provide entertainment when they enter the spotlight. I’m not talking about Hulk Hogan and the Gawker tapes. I invite you to reacquaint yourself with Lewis Francis Herreshoff, aka L. Francis, Francis or LFH, who struggled for some time to escape the shadow of his redoubtable father, Nathanael Greene Herreshoff, the patron saint of American yacht design.
Prospector is sailing fast, the wind blowing 20 knots on her starboard bow. It’s very dark; the full moon has not yet risen. We’ve just rounded Redonda Rock, a looming, jagged outcropping of an island between Nevis in the West Indies and Montserrat in the Lesser Antilles. Sheeted in tight, standing on the stern, I’m straining to grind in the mainsheet. I can’t believe I’m here.
Fifty-three square meters. That’s 570 square feet. Not much for a cattle rancher, but for a flybridge on a motoryacht, I’d say that’s pretty posh. And that’s not all: bar, lounge area, Jacuzzi and a motorcycle that is hoisted to and from street level with a dedicated crane.
Few things are dreaded more by those who go to sea than things that go bump in the night. Snoozing whales, ice in higher latitudes, cargo containers that were lost overboard and drift half-submerged toward great ocean gyres, where they have a party with millions of tons of other floating garbage.
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