Between a rock and a hard place

Sea Fever 

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.



I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.



I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

John Masefield 1878 – 1967

I must go down to the seas again…

A friend, let’s call him Chris, is between a rock and a hard place – not anywhere a sailor wants to be. His Dad died a bit over 3 years ago and left the family yacht to him and his brother. Their Dad was a boat builder and designer and the boat he left moored in the harbour was one he was instrumental in designing back in the ‘70’s – a 30’ family yacht and competitive enough to race if they felt the need. Chris and his brother grew up with this boat, the family sailed around the Gulf together, and then later he sailed down the Firth of Thames, girlfriend and alcohol aboard, anchored up at Splore with one declared and the other really not.

Chris and his brother were older when their Dad died; they both have young families now and the impulse to sail is still strong – Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied – but the boat’s 4 hours North rocking and lapping on its mooring, swinging with the tide. The teak deck’s gone soft; there’s a mustiness that can’t be ignored when the hatch rolls back, but the spine is strong, beautiful salted timber, preserved, waiting.
It would be more money than available to pull her out, scrape, paint, fit new deck, new sails; the motor’s good, but it’s a sail boat; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

So at the end of service and adventure, endeavour and toil, she’s for sale, for sure, for sail if someone would, a boat in a pretty harbour given to restore; but the mooring’s likely worth more than she is in dollars and fees, and probably what she is to scrap – that harsh word, that sinking feeling.

Rock and a hard place. It’s expensive to do nothing and ignore the grief, an immeasurable burden to leave her unattended; and there’s hard work and toil to see her through this mouldering, restored to a new life, or broken up and returned to the elements.

Here’s the proposal: some brave soul with a clear eye strips her of all fluids and toxicity, strips her back to structure and bravery and prepares her for one day when, after life and fire and lunacy has cooled, that man or woman will be prepared and wrapped, laid down and secured on her deck and towed far, far out; let the wind blow on the lit flame, scuttle her, sink her, bury them both at sea.

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.