From the archives
Inspiration—the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something: Bob Miller was inspired by the places his Drascombe would take him.
There have been more than a few moments in the build of my new boat Southern Cross that only fellow boat builders can truly appreciate. Dark morning crunches through snow to an ice-cold shop to stoke the woodstove. Fits and starts progress as I shuttled for work between the US and Micronesia. The dripping heat of summer, sweat pooling in my dust mask, the wiped brow that never stays dry. Sanding and sanding and for good measure more sanding. There have been hundreds of little victories balanced against a handful of little defeats listed as hardened epoxy drips, the thrice measured cut that ends up an inch short, nicked fingers, hair stiff with glue, the belief that this time I can just spread a little paint without changing into work clothes—oops. Perseverance based on dreams of the places she will take me have kept the ember that burns deep inside glowing.
I can imagine for most of us who read Small Craft Advisor that “Oh the places she’ll take me” is a shared fire burning in our collective souls. It is the motivation that has found me since boyhood wandering boatyards, dreaming of magic reaches up a moonlit path, contemplating the quiet cove and soporific tap, tap, tap of wavelets singing though the hull at anchor. Sailing as a touchstone has kept me grounded between the diverse worlds I have inhabited throughout my life abroad. At times I feel dipped back and forth between the hot and cold of our media-blitz, consumer-driven world, and simple village life in Pohnpei, where a fresh coconut is counted as more than enough. As cure I often revert to sailing dreams when stuck in line, traffic or crushed by crowds. My mind wanders to, “if only I was in a small boat and had a precious day” and then I am there.
Possessed by the wind, I live for the sweet release moments of the sailing dream state, the stand back and look at her, the tug of slight weather helm as her rail dips and the heart sings so close to the most magical of interfaces, the flashing bow wave and endless sky above. I am a man in love, a love of what is ahead and of what vanishes behind as I proceed. In my chest beats an explorer’s heart stuck in an explored and exploited world. Only under sail do I feel I am making new tracks as I leave a disappearing act behind as wake turns to wave.
These transcendent moments juxtaposed against all that overloads and numbs our senses is why I believe so many of us aspire to sail. We can each seek our brand of joy, our secret dreams of exploration and escape. For inspiration I offer just a few of the thousands of moments I have collected along the way. These few were tough to choose, perhaps it’s time for a book.
• One calm, foggy morning during a cruise down east to Maine I biked away from my 20-foot wood cutter Blueberry to find groceries. On my return I discovered someone had waded out and left a woven basket of warm blueberry muffins in her cockpit.
• As an eleven-year-old I vividly recall sulking at home due to a two-week grounding. I had been caught after a 26-mile round trip secret bike hike to the shores of a lake where one of my first smitten-beyond-words small-boat love affairs took place beside Bluenose, a diminutive WWP 14. I sat for several hours in wonderment dreaming of the places such a boat could take me.
• High in the Swiss Alps, Lake Silvaplana glistened like a million jewels as the famed Maloja wind ripped across the surface. I was there to officiate a World and European sailing championship and on this day off I sailed in a mind state beyond description. Small boats had taken me to another amazing place.
• My highly customized Cape Dory Typhoon surged down wind, down wave as her tiny Hasler Sp vane held a weaving course. Young and green through and through I blissfully sailed in conditions far beyond my skill level. Later I reveled in the thousand moments of “I guess I got lucky.”
• My folding sail kayak had been a handful to transport by chicken bus into the mountains of Guatemala but so worth the effort. I awoke before dawn one morning on the island of Flores in Lake Peten Itza and set sail. Just off shore the tiny island seemed to blast awake with the singing of thousands and thousands of birds in a stunning cacophony of song. Delighted I lay down in the bottom of the boat and drifted in a sort of rapture.
• Just after dawn I crested a sand dune. My pal Hugh Horton and I had split our coffeemaker in parts when packing boats. I had pushed on to anchor out and he opted for a beach camp. Cup in hand I crested the dune and barked out a mish mash of lines from Jeremiah Johnson, “You’re the same dumb pilgrim I been hearing for twenty miles and smellin for three, watch your top knot.” I had surprised Hugh and as I rounded his tent discovered he was hard at coffee making, straining his through a pair of clean underwear! We laughed so hard we could hardly breathe.
• Stuck in the Cape Horn lighthouse keeper’s hut due to extreme weather my three Chilean navy friends introduced me to a little something they had secretly brewed up. Between fits of laughter I was instructed in the nuances of the Chilean national dance and I followed up with jitterbug lessons and, yes, a gossamer wood -canvas sailing kayak had taken me there.
Here I sit in Santiago Chile on a logistics scouting trip before meeting John Welsford to head south through Patagonia into Tierra del Fuego. I may have flown here, yet as odd as it sounds, a small boat named Southern Cross caused me to be here, as I prepare to ship her south to sail about as “out there” as can be through the wilds of Tierra del Fuego and into the Southern Ocean. Spring is in the air, so get back out there to your shop or garage and keep rigging, polishing, painting and sanding because only you know where she can take you. Dream of what may come and then sand a bit more! See you out there. •SCA•
First appeared in issue #99
Every image in this tail excites some spot in my sprawling 30-year jumble of global memories from the Corps and the Foreign Service. Through sailing a 34-foot rental around Robin Island, to guiding my 18-foot Hobie SX up the Rusizi Delta past hippos and Gustave the alligator, to this moment, I am dreaming of the places she will take me. I'm in Pakistan now, but I hope to see some of you out on the Salish Sea soon. I just need to pick up some sandpaper on the way.