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challenging.
Once the planks were in place, we had
to keep the water out. “Red-lead the seams
fi rst,” my father told me. “Then caulk her
by sound. I brought several irons and the
mallet. Finally, knife on some Woolsey’s
seam compound and pray.”
She fl oated like a swan upon the water.
“She don’t look so worthless now, does
she?” I asked him.
He grinned. “No, son, she doesn’t,” he
said. “You did good.”
Three days later, she’d swelled up
enough to completely stop leaking. Oh, I
was proud. “Tight as a drum!” I shoutedhappily as I rowed her around the harbor.
My father was right on one account:
She was heavy and a bear to row, but row
her I did. She was mine, all mine. When
I fi nally got through splashing her with
paint, she was the prettiest fl at-bottom
16 -footer in the harbor.
A part of me, 50-plus years later, still
loves her deeply.
At age 15, I was living in Chicago and
had a plan. I’d save up my money and
buy a Volkswagen van. When I turned
16 and had my driver’s license, a pal
named George and I would drive to San
Francisco for what would turn out to bethe Summer of Love. It wasn’t a great
plan, but it was a fairly common one for
an American youth of that era. But then
I was at a hippie Christmas party in an
ex-funeral parlor on Cleaver Street (it was
an odd period) when I overheard a slightly
tipsy sailmaker named Mike Joyce saying:
“I’ve got half a dozen sailboats. One is
right close by in the Chicago River. I’m
going to convert her into a coho fi sher!”
A few days later, I happened to be on abus in snow-snarled traffi c on the North
Avenue Bridge when I spotted said vessel.
It was a lovely William Atkin-designed
22-footer, built in 1932 of Port Oxford
cedar. I jumped off the bus. The boat had
been broken into and looted. All her ports
were smashed. Gang graffi ti was spray-
painted inside. There was no rig, a fi re had
been lit in the head area, and the engine
was frozen solid with rust.
Like I said, she was lovely.
I sat in the cockpit — gently, so as not
to scare her. I felt the most powerful surge
of lust I’d ever experienced. I silently
told her I loved her and would take care
of her and that we’d sail far, far off shore
together. Promise. Cross my heart and
hope to die. So help me God.
I didn’t have Mike’s phone number, so
I called his girlfriend, Lynne Orloff (who
would go on to become author of the
marine cookbook Can-to-Pan Cookery),
and explained the situation. She was a tad
taken aback.
“Are you suggesting I, er, withhold my
aff ection from Mike until he sells you that
boat?” she asked, appalled.
“Great idea!” I said.
Mike and I settled on $200 for Corina,
with another $15 for a mainsail and $10
for the jib. “You’re on your way, kid,” he
said to me.
I believe I’ve proven him correct.
When I reached 19, I put an ad in the
Boston Phoenix to see if anyone else was
interested in building a bluewater cruising
boat. Seventy-some people responded.
We had a spaghetti dinner that more than
30 hippies slurped. We picked a couple of
dozen freaks out of the pile and formed
Ferro Cement Boats of Boston.
Three years later, I splashed Carlotta,
our 36 -foot Endurance ketch, and arrived
in the Caribbean a few years after that.
This boat gave me the greatest gift ofjune/july 2016cruisingworld.comON WATCHI sat in the cockpit —
gently, so as not to scare
her. I felt the most
powerful surge of lust
I’d ever experienced.