WHY own A BOAT? and for me "Why a Sailboat" when what I really want is to go camping somewhere in the San Juan Islands

Why a Boat?

"Why a boat?" is a fair question. The usual quick answer? "Why not a boat?"

Aha—got me again. But if you don’t like the answer, ask a better question.

Okay, how about this: "Why take a boat for a cruise instead of driving and camping?" Now we’re getting somewhere.

Why a Sailboat?

We spend most of our lives on land. A boat, at least for me, offers wide open spaces, freedom, and something more—an escape from the ordinary. The journey itself is my desire, my wish, my goal. The destination? Merely a mark on the chart, a waypoint in life.

A boat is both a complicated machine I must master and a simple drifting raft—a vessel of endless potential. Whether slicing through the waves, steering an underwater wing, or gliding lazily with the current, the experience is the same. The past and future dissolve; I am completely immersed in the present.

Underway at sea, my mind is filled with the pressing matters at hand. What course is safe? What hazards lie ahead? Are we drifting toward that menacing lee shore? Will we clear the point, or should we tack now and risk thin water? What is that new sound? That strange motion? That unfamiliar vibration?

I spot a rock ahead. A glance at the depth gauge tells me we have room—but then the rock disappears. Now it reappears, just off the bow. As we close the distance, I see it has eyes, a nose, and whiskers.

A mariner's connection stirs within me, and I fight the urge to wave. No response is forthcoming.

Anxiously, I check the depth again, hand poised near the motor. Then—the wind shifts. The sails fill. A sudden gust tightens the lines. I glance up the mast; the wind vane swings 90 degrees to starboard.

The sails, hanging like billowy white clouds, spill wind. I ease the mainsheet, adjust the jib. The telltales stream flat. Our trim is perfect.

The boat picks up speed, slicing cleanly through the smooth green water. We’re in the groove now—fairly flying. Our rolling wake is a fleeting marker of where we've been, an open message that tells little but still points our course for all to see.

No longer in the current’s unrelenting grip, we’ll soon clear the point and escape the deadly, ship-wrecking lee shore. No need for the motor—we’ll sail into the cove and anchor in time for a shore hike, a hearty dinner, and a sunset campfire on the beach.

But then—the sails luff. The wind shifts, then dies altogether.

I trim the sheets, but the telltales hang limp. The boat slows.

I glance toward the looming shore. Check the depth again. We may not make the cove after all.

Should I start the motor?

Looking for hazards, I scan the water. More heads have turned toward me now, watching. The connection feels stronger. This time, I give a dismissive wave—they know what’s happened. They know the wind has abandoned me.

Without it, we lose headway. Then, steerage.

Drifting backwards now, ever so slowly, the boat inches closer to the rocky shore. Closer to certain doom.

I check the depth again.

Kelp and seaweed float around us—pockets of debris from the last storm, drifting aimlessly in little flotillas of waste.

Then—suddenly—a slap of halyards against the mast.

The rigging strains, flexes. A swell rolls beneath us, nudging the boat with unseen force.

I scan the water. What caused the commotion? What set off the alarms?

Then I see it—a small boat, far off in the distance. Its wake reaches us in a series of gentle ripples, each one fainter than the last. A message sent. A message received. Then, silence.

I check the depth and glance toward the shore.

And I wait.

An hour later, nestled in the cove, the burnt orange sun silently slips below the horizon, marking the end of a wonderful day. A glass of fine Pinot or a cool drink rests in my hand as I sit by the campfire on the beach. My trusty yacht is peacefully anchored 150 feet offshore, or perhaps tied tranquilly to the dock just a few steps away.

Later, after dark, while waiting for sleep to overtake me, my thoughts drift to the day gone by—and to what tomorrow will bring.

Why not a Sailboat

 

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