Before the Sun Sets

Editorial from issue #120

It’s been almost twenty years now I’ve been part of publishing this magazine. The demographics of the sailing community are such that for most of those years (I was 28 when we started) I was one of the younger enthusiasts. Although the disparity is, I’m sad to say, less striking these days, historically I was the “young guy” and, consequently, a lot of you have taken me under wing.

You’ve taught me about boats and sailing of course, but also about life—especially about wringing every last experience out of your hours on earth. Nothing, it seems, is quite so motivational as looking up to notice the sun slipping toward the horizon.

I first saw this urgent sense of mortality in Yves Eriksson. I’d inquired about the Potter 15 in his driveway—it wasn’t for sale he said, but we hit it off and eventually he decided he’d be willing to sell me a half-ownership. Suddenly old Yves had all kinds of ambitious plans for us and the little boat, including some extended sails out on the Pacific Ocean. This might not have been so worrisome if the mast hadn’t come crashing into the cockpit during our first sail together—the result of a cheap galvanized bolt he’d installed rusting away predictably. Yves seemed to act like he wouldn’t be around long enough to need proper stainless fasteners. I awoke one morning to the sound of power tools outside my apartment only to find him perched atop the Potter drilling holes in the cabintop for some sort of Rube Goldberg contraption he’d brainstormed. There was no time like the present with Yves.

Larry Viau was another older guy I sailed with some—a retired attorney who’d literally received a new lease on life in his late seventies. Months after a heart attack left his ticker barely functioning and it appeared the end was near, his heart suddenly started pumping perfectly. Larry ran right out and bought a brand new Montgomery 17 with every conceivable option. He walked around with a perpetual smile. I remember him getting down on the floor to show me he could do a push-up for every one of his years.

I first met Vin and Barb O’Hara when they were already in their 70s. I’d been fawning over the old British bilge-keeler they had for sale at the marina. I couldn’t afford it, but Vin saw how bad I wanted it and before long we’d worked out some convoluted payment plan and I had my new boat. This was when Anika and I still lived in California. “You really need to check out Port Townsend,” he’d tell us occasionally, “You’ll love it there.”

Vin and Barb had a bigger boat too—one they regularly cruised back and forth to Hawaii. I would see them every year or two when they came through Port Townsend to visit. Vin would reach for a handshake, but I’d give him a hug instead and the retired surgeon and WWII, Korea, and Desert Storm-vet would grimace. A born adventurer, Vin turned me on to the writing and exploits of Erskine Childers and he loved that our kids shared names with a rum-runner (McCoy) and a famous ‘round-the-world airplane (Winnie Mae).

The last time they stopped through—by then in their 80s and fresh off another Pacific crossing—I noticed Vin was having a little trouble getting up from his restaurant chair. I briefly considered helping him but quickly thought better of it. We walked out to say our goodbyes. Strapped to the roof of their van was a pair of wooden kayaks. They were on their way up to Alaska to paddle and camp the Yukon River. And why not? Never put off for tomorrow what you can still do today. —Joshua Colvin

The old Fantasie 19 Anika and I got from Vin and Barb