The Laser was a little worse for wear. It was an old one, a little too heavy with chips and gouges that left the fiberglass exposed. Half the parts had gone missing over the years. The sail was new, but it was a full rig. A radial would’ve suited me better.
Still, the boat’s previous owner made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He said I could have it for free. He said he’d give it to me with the trailer. He said he’d fix the wiring on the trailer so that it was street legal. He said he’d drive two hours to drop it off.
How could I say no?
Like every new boat owner, I had starry-eyed ambition about the adventures the Laser and I would go on—and the abs I’d have after a summer of hiking. And like many new boat owners, I bit off more than I could chew.
In the June/July issue Alan Gloss writes about acquiring a used Sunfish, but plenty of his lessons apply to other dinghies as well, and I could’ve used his advice when standing in that parking lot a few springs ago, inspecting the Laser that was about to become mine.
The first summer, I made strides. I scrubbed it white. I sanded and made gel coat repairs. I ordered hiking straps and sister clips and the wrong size stern plug. I spent a few Saturdays laying out the rig in the driveway, trying to piece together what else I was missing. A boom strap, a vang, another stern plug…I tried to figure out whether the crack around the mast step was cosmetic or whether it went down through the fiberglass. I’d heard all the horror stories about free boats, and I should have known better. I suppose I just thought that since there was no engine or electronics, it wouldn’t be that bad. Autumn rolled around, and my boat hadn’t seen the lake yet.
The next spring, I returned to lay everything out again and refresh myself on where I’d left off, only to find that my box of parts had disappeared over the winter. Rather than start from scratch, I searched and waited for them to turn up. By the time they did, another summer had slipped by.
There’s enough space in the yard that the Laser isn’t really hurting anyone out there, but I feel guilty every time I see the layer of green growing on the gelcoat. Last year, I told myself that if it wasn’t on the water by August, it’d be on Craigslist in September. But then I took over as Editor-in-Chief in June, and that pretty much blew the rest of my summer plans out of the water. For another season, the Laser was neglected.
Back in my early years at SAIL, on summer days then-Editor-in-Chief Pete Nielsen used to take long lunches with his Pearson 39-2, Minx. He’d usually return mid-afternoon streaked in grease and swearing about the expensive new thing he’d uncovered while fixing the previous expensive new thing. One day he returned to the office, sighed heavily, and said, “Lydia, I hope you’re never f——g stupid enough to get a boat of your own.” Turns out, I was. But I console myself with the thought that I’m in good company.
As much as Pete groused, you could tell that he loved Minx. That’s the crux of the problem, I think. Despite the cost and the work, the idea of sailing on your own terms is too much to resist. We’re romanced by the freedom, the joy, and the clarity of mind that comes from logging off and shoving off. That’s why I can’t quite talk myself into getting rid of my project boat yet. The ambition is alive even when the motivation is, uh, hibernating.
But I can’t stay in limbo forever. This year, I tell myself, is the year that the boat goes—either into the water or on to its next backyard.
— Lydia
Lydia can be reached by email at lydia.mullan@firecrown.com or @lydiaatsea on Instagram
