Carriacou Regatta Festival 2007 - Caribbean Compass

SEPTEMBER 2007 CARIBBEAN COMPASS PAGE 40
Dave & Jane Royce
Dodgers, Biminis, Awnings,
Stak-paks & Sailcovers,
Laying-up Covers & Dinghy Covers
Exterior & Interior Upholstery
Leathering Steering Wheels & Grabrails
Agents for
SCIENTIFIC SAILMAKING
In fact anything you can think of -
we have it covered!
NEW LOCATION
Le Phare Bleu Marina, Petite Calivigny
Grenada, West Indies
Tel/Fax (473) 443 2960
dave@TheCanvasShopGrenada.com
Our beautiful Cabo Rico, Spectre, got hauled out
here last week and joined the boats on Row D. We
have cleaned up everything inside (I admit I am fastidious)
and put on the tarp. Tomorrow we head back
to the city, leaving the boat here until the next cruising
season.
It is a good yard: a bit pricey perhaps, with lots of
rules, but well-run and responsible. Trees all around
give great protection. With the sun on your skin and
the sand firm underfoot, it is a pleasant yard to work
in. Besides; we have lots of friends here. Billy and
Dawn, that couple we met in Sainte Anne, have their
Tayana 37 in our row. They have been cruising for
years. I don’t think I have ever known a couple more
“at one” with their boat. Next to them is that family of
keen racers we met in Antigua with their brand-new
Beneteau. They sail everywhere. I suspect the engine
is too small. The two teenage sons talk about carbon
fiber and sheeting angles all the time. Beside them is
that reserved Canadian couple with the Alberg 37 who
seem very content with it.
You have to love the shape of boats. When they are
up on the stands you get a chance to admire their
underwater lines: the sleek overhangs of the Alberg;
the chubby cheeks of the Tayana; the delicate bowl of
the Beneteau poised on its fin keel. Each one is a different
creature.
We did not get very far this year because we had to
stay somewhere convenient for the grandchildren. We
read a lot and I did odd jobs around the boat. I must
say the jobs have been a little harder this year. My
body seems stiff. My loyal wife and longtime cruising
companion has evidently noticed it too. Last week she
was unusually blunt.
“Look at you. You are all hunched over like an old
man. Your hand trembles when you walk.”
She made me go to a local quack who prescribed
some tablets. I don’t believe in pills but I took one with
my coffee this morning just to keep her happy.
The travel lift is grinding up the yard with another
boat for our row. I have seen that beat-up Morgan
before. I remember the bent pulpit and the scars along
the topsides. It must have been hard aground on its
side at one time. Now I recollect the owner too. We met
him in Marathon, a single-hander with a ginger beard
who was arguing with the marina staff. He will be next
to us in the yard so we will have to get along. And here
he comes, choking mad about something.
“Look at this.” He is brandishing the marina
brochure. “They charge two hundred effing bucks to
put the boat on the stands and, on top of that, twenty-five
bucks every time you want to move a stand to
paint the bottom. Twenty-five bucks to move a frigging
stand? What a rip-off. No way, José!”
Well, it takes all sorts.
That pill I took this morning. It’s quite remarkable. I
feel distinctly different, more limber. Look, I am walking
upright. My hand is not shaking. The doc said to
take one a day but I think I will try a few extra this
evening and see how I am in the morning. That way I
can find out what these pills can really do. Anyway it
is encouraging. Perhaps I can get back to my old self
and be more adventurous next season.
It is our last night. The boat is shut up so we are
bedding down in a friend’s trailer. God, it is stuffy. My
wife is snoring gently. I can’t sleep. I will go for a walk
until I get tired. I tip-toe out of the trailer. It is curious,
all my perceptions seem heightened. My muscles
are on edge, like a racehorse in the starting gate.
What a beautiful night!
How strange the yard looks in moonlight. It is quite
transfigured. The sand has turned to dazzling snow.
The black trees stand stiffly, alert as sentries, holding
their breath with expectation. The boats have grown
larger. Their swelling bodies lurk in deep shadow. In
the bluish light their covers gleam like wet fur. I imagine
that I have strayed into the secret dormitory of
some huge marine mammals, giant walruses perhaps.
When the night breeze moves the covers these creatures
seem to stir in their sleep. I hide in the shadows
so as not to disturb them.
What was that?
I thought I heard a voice. A cold shiver grips my neck.
I must be imagining things. I have noticed that when it
is very quiet, the mind makes sounds of its own.
No, there it is again, a moaning female voice.
“I am glad it is over….”
Now I am wild with fear, my hearing acute.
“They push me too hard….”
The voice is coming from that Beneteau! Some poor
COMPASS FICTION
HAUL OUT
by Peter Ashby
woman has been left on board.
“We are always pounding upwind, straining the rigging.”
I should rush to help but my limbs seem paralyzed.
Then, right behind me, an intake of breath. I turn
with horror. On the hull of the Tayana, close to the
bow, an eye has appeared, a small, shrewd elephant’s
eye, with lashes. It closes and opens again.
A deep voice speaks: “The things we put up with.
But listen; if they look after your gear you will be safe
enough. Eventually they will get tired of it too. Long
ago I made a point of performing poorly up wind. It
took a while, but our lot finally gave up trying and
waited until they could get to places on a reach. When
they do that I try to give them a smooth ride.”
The Beneteau shakes her covers. I can see the hull
move as she takes a breath.
“I don’t mind carving upwind in flat water. That is
what I am made for. But this pounding….”
The lips on the plumb bow compress tightly.
“You have to be patient.” This quiet Canadian voice
is coming from the Alberg. “For a while, my couple carried
too much sail. I had to pitch everything out of the
galley onto the cabin sole a few times before they
caught on. Now we get along fine.”
I can hear other voices murmuring all down the row.
My eyes catch the open sores on the Morgan’s flanks
oozing in the moonlight. The Morgan is talking to its
neighbour. Its neighbour? That is our boat! I refocus
my hearing.
The Morgan said “I would kill him if I got the chance.
He is so incompetent. Half the time he is drunk. We
have been aground, hit docks, hit other boats. He never
fixes anything. I am ashamed to be seen like this.”
I can hear fluttering all around now. Conversations
are starting up all over the yard. I am frozen with fear.
“At least you go places.”
That is our boat answering! An eye, a moist, black,
whale’s eye now glistens at the bow. A crescent of
white appears as the eye turns to the Morgan.
“I have a couple of old farts who never go anywhere.
Can you believe three months in Vero Beach? On a
mooring? Sure, they fuss about varnishing and removing
every speck of rust, but what for? I am an ocean
boat. I just wish they would sell me to a younger couple
who want to do blue water. I would show them
what a real boat can do.”
I am furious! Old farts? I burst out into the moonlight.
“How dare you say that? We did the whole
Caribbean several times.”
All the boats are suddenly hushed. A silence sweeps
across the yard like a hiss. But I can tell they are just
holding their breath, listening. The whale’s eye closes
and fades back into the hull.
“Come back,” I shout.
“John. Is that you?”
It is my wife calling. She is coming down the yard in
her nightie and yellow sailing boots.
“Who on earth are you taking to? You sounded angry.”
We are back in the city now with all its noise and
hurry. I have been dragging around to specialists.
They say I have a neurological disorder. It is progressive
but it can be slowed. I am taking different pills
now. They seem to control the stiffness, and they don’t
keep me awake all night.
Reluctantly, after repeated family discussions, I call
the boat yard.
“We have to sell our boat, Spectre. It is on Row D.”
“Row D? Just a minute.” A young cheerful voice. He
must be new on staff. I can hear shifting papers and
voices in the background.
Someone in the distance says, “Is he calling about
the Morgan?”
“No, Spectre.”
There is more mumbling, then the young voice
comes back on the line.
“It is okay. Your boat is okay. So we will tell the broker
that ‘Spectre’ is for sale and have him advertise it.
You may be in luck. There was a young couple here
yesterday looking for a boat like yours to sail to New
Zealand.”
He sounds way too glib and cheerful for a serious
moment like parting with a boat.
“Thank you. Please have the broker call me…what
was that about the Morgan?”
“Are…are you a relative?”
“No. Why?”
“Well I was not here at the time. I just started last
week. Apparently the owner moved the stands to paint
the bottom. We don’t allow that, you know. Anyway
the boat fell on him.”