Opinion

After the rigors of our Ouija board navigation, Ken treated me to a spontaneous VHF serenade. Suddenly, blasting out of the radio came the unmistakable sound of the “Ride of the Valkyries.” I grabbed the microphone and hollered to my mid-ocean friend, “Charley don’t surf…Charley don’t surf!”

My running diesel made a clunking sound, followed by silence. Next came the sound of rushing water, as if from a large hose. I quickly pulled the companionway steps off the engine compartment and saw tannin-darkened river water gushing in around the propeller shaft, a shocking confirmation of my worst fear. If the flooding water couldn’t be stopped, Kelly IV, my 1979 Endeavour 32, would be lost.

It’s no secret that the popularity of recreational sailing in America is ebbing and, sadly, has been for decades.  According to the US Coast Guard, since 1999 sailboat registrations have dropped by more than 25% , a trend that began back in the early ’80s, and now barely 2% of all registered boats are powered by the wind.

America’s Cup. Controversy. One goes with the other. For as long as the Auld Mug has been in existence, it has been surrounded by various degrees of skullduggery, brinkmanship, double-dealing, scandal and just plain nastiness.

On the first morning of our trip from Miami to Bimini we were “pulled over” by a speedboat full of heavily armed Customs and Border Protection agents. At the time, three friends and I were sailing away from the United States at a stately two-and-a-half knots and were still within 10 miles of Miami.

Walking along the dock at the Sunsail base in Tortola, BVI, one evening in March, I noticed a most peculiar thing. It was changeover day, when one lot of charters departs and the next lot arrives and spends the night in the marina to settle in before heading out the following morning.   

One reason I like sailing is that it is one of the few endeavors in which the concept of individual responsibility still has meaning. It is much easier to blame someone or something else for the consequences of your decisions than to admit any fault on your own part—it goes back as far as Eve and the serpent—but on a small boat you soon run out of things to point your finger at.

There is a popular notion, heralded by most modern sailors, that leading all lines aft to the cockpit will simplify your life. I’m here to disagree.

I first went to New Zealand in 2006. I was 20 years old and setting off on my first long journey away from home, bound for Brisbane, Australia, for a semester of college at the University of Queensland.

One beautiful August evening last summer we were sailing to meet friends in the Canadian Gulf Islands when the wind died. The tidal current just happened to be at peak ebb on Boundary Pass, so we furled the sails and fired up the engine.