When the lockbox of my “nautical needs money pit” is breached, there is no telling exactly where the cash might go, but the general direction mathematically is up, up and away.
Following the traditional rag-hauler’s endless pursuit of frugality, my primary objective has always been to become fairly proficient in the art of solo sailing without making it more potentially dangerous than it is already.
Who among us real boaters has never yearned for a getaway cottage overlooking a bay, ocean, lake, river, creek, cove or even a mere goldfish pond? A simple kind of weekend hunting cabin with a wood cookstove to knock down a chill, some oil and kerosene lamps to set a mood, a padded rocking chair, and a comfy bunk with a bedroll would do nicely.
What a difference eight years makes in the life of a 12-year-old — in this case my only grandchild, Claire, who will inherit my 1962 Sailmaster 22C, along with a trust fund targeted specifically for boat maintenance, after I give up sailing at age 100. (Oh, what a lucky little girl!)
I have been following the rousing adventures of sailing writer Angus Phillips for more than 35 years, mostly during his stint as the outdoors editor of The Washington Post from the mid-1970s until his retirement in 2010. I have also sailed casually with and against him, and struggled to compete with him while covering America’s Cup regattas in Newport, R.I., in 1980 and 1983 for different newspapers. And as a non-angler I even read his well-spun tales of “feeeshing.”
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