Making a List, Checking it Twice

The day after the big purchase I took a moment to pause and take stock of what I’d just done. I called Nicole, my girlfriend of ten years, and said:  “Hi. Ummm. I bought a boat.”  She gave a noticeably nervous laugh and said:  "Well, okay then. I guess that happened.” In Bayfield, WI, news travels fast. It’s small town. My nervousness and anxiety was diminished every time some old salt told me what a good deal I got. And how they were thinking of buying it too, but just didn’t have the time to put into it. I was getting a lot of affirmation. It helped. But then the questions started. “So, are you going to splash this season?”, “Did you find the rudder?”, “Does she start?” “Have you tested the batteries?” “How do the sails look?".

I began compiling a list of things that needed to be done. Looking at the list now (almost two years later) it seems laughably short and childishly optimistic:

1.  Mount and test rudder
2.  Re-align steering quadrant and rudder post. No keyhole?
3.  Attach manual bilge pump hose and run to bilge
4.  Replace batteries
5.  Inspect sails, test seams
6.  Clean / de-rust engine
7.  Trace all thru-hulls
8.  Trace all electrical
9.  Schedule engine mechanic for maintenance
10. Licensing and Coast Guard registration
11. Buy insurance
12. Remove all unnecessary stuff (old cleaning supplies, etc.)
13, Inventory all gear and parts
14. Clean boat inside and out.
15. Secure a slip and find out how much it costs.

Well that sounds simple enough. I’ll just drive up from the Twin Cities every weekend (4 hours each way) and tick those off the list one by one. I had no intention of splashing the boat for the remainder of this short season. I’ll just get everything ready for an early launch next year. I knew it was a lot of work. I was prepared for a lot of work. Lesser men than I have accomplished twice as much in half the time. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Show Me the Money

The little printed flyer, wrinkled from rain and faded from the sun was haphazardly taped to a flimsy card table covered in spare parts next to the boat. It told me I was looking at a 1966 Pearson Alberg 35. Hull #200. It proudly proclaimed that Anna Rita was “ready to sail” and was being offered at the “give-away" price of $5,500. Bold statements indeed. I tracked the owner down by phone and asked about the rudder. "It’s brand new, never been used and sitting in storage". I asked about the engine. "It worked last time I used it. But no guarantees". I asked about everything. The answers were exactly what I wanted to hear (of course). Some were a little vague. Honestly, it sounded like he really didn't know that much about the boat. But he told me he had moved to Alaska for the last three years, which is why Anna Rita had been stranded on the cold, hard ground all that time.

The next day, I found myself at my bank taking out a $2,500 loan against my car. I had made my final payment on the car the previous day. Sometimes, the timing just works out that way I guess. So I had just finished paying off my car, and not 24 hours later, I converted my car payments into boat payments. I had the rest of the money saved up. Undaunted, and cash in-hand I hit the road and made the four-hour drive to Bayfield, WI. The previous night I had typed up what I thought was a reasonable purchase agreement. This turned out to be a bad decision, but more on that later. 

I met the guy. This guy had a story. He was living in a camper-van next to the boat. Going through a divorce, with nowhere else to live and currently unemployed, he needed the cash in a bad way. It was a hard-luck story. I felt bad for him. I got the sense he thought the boat was worth twice what he was asking, but he did not have the time to wait for the right buyer. In a way, I sort of felt like I was taking advantage of a guy who’d fallen on hard times. I was fine with that.

We signed the agreement, I handed him an envelope containing fifty-five $100 bills. We shook hands. And that was it. I had just bought my first boat. I still get that butterfly feeling in my stomach when I recall the moment. We celebrated with a few cocktails. I think he was celebrating more than I was... which made me nervous. I guess that old saying must be true about the two happiest days of a boat owner’s life:  The day he buys a boat and the day he sells it. 

That was it. That was the moment my life changed forever. I was no longer on the sidelines. I was in the game. I was excited, nervous, anxious and proud. I had done it! 

I was a boat owner.

Climbing The Ladder

When I first climbed the old, handmade, wooden ladder (complete with missing rungs and rusty nails), I did so with a sense of hesitant optimism. I made a video of the experience. I can still hear my voice giving color-commentary about the condition of the wood, the hull and the equipment. It’s like I am trying to sell myself on the idea. Who am I kidding? I’m going to buy the boat. That decision was made before I stepped on the deck. The notion that somehow this decision could be made to seem reasonable or rational seems ridiculous in hindsight. I was a helpless bystander. I was just watching it happen.

Obviously there was work to be done. A rush of logical objections and emotional responses to this purchase went through my head. The conversation went something like this:

Logic:  "The rudder isn’t even there. You have no idea where it is, or how much it will cost to replace."

Emotion:  "No big deal, I mean, I am sure it’s somewhere. All we need to do is just attach it."

Logic: "It’s not that simple and you know it!" 

Emotion:  "It might be. Besides, even if it needs a new rudder, I am sure I can find one somewhere. Relax."

Logic:  "Okay then, what about the engine? Who knows if it works? What if you have to replace the engine?"

Emotion:  "Well I am sure it worked when they last used it, why wouldn’t it work now? You’re just being paranoid."

Logic: "It’s been sitting here for God knows how long, freezing and thawing and rusting. Do you know anything about engines? No. No you don’t. Idiot!"

Emotion:  "Look, I’ll just get a guy to tune it up and get it running. A couple hundred bucks and we’re good to go." 

Logic:  "You’re delusional. What about all the electrical stuff? Batteries and wiring and lights and instruments? Do any of those work? Do you know anything about electricity? You’re going to kill yourself."

Emotion:  "It’s a sailboat! How much electrical stuff do I need? As long as I’ve got wind in the sails and a compass I’ll be fine." 

Logic:  "That may be the stupidest thing I have ever heard. But fine. So what about those sails? Are they even in working order?"

Emotion. "They looked like they were in good shape to me."

Logic: "You didn’t  even take them out of the sail bag you jackass. You just sort of pulled a little corner of the jib out of the bag. What if there are holes in them, or they’re worn out? Can you afford new sails? Probably not since you don’t even know how much that would cost."

Emotion: "There’s plenty of older, used sails around I can find if I need to. I see people looking to sell their old sails all the time. You worry too much."

Logic: *SIGH* 

Emotion: "Yep, this all looks great to me."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how these stories always start.

Finding Anna Rita

In August of 2013 I found her. Anna Rita had been sitting on the hard for 3 years. She was hiding in a neglected part of an out-of-the-way boat yard. Down a path I called the Boulevard of Broken Dreams; a long row of boats in various stages of disrepair or abandonment. One day, I overheard some local sailors talking about an old boat for sale, I thought I should take a look. I wouldn’t say it was love at first sight. But she definitely had a certain appeal. Those sleek lines, large full keel and long overhangs that make her instantly recognizable as a classic. Just what I was looking for. She was rudderless and neglected and needed some work. But not so far gone that she couldn't be saved. If the engine started, and her rudder was simply in storage, this was the perfect boat for what I had in mind. I should talk a little about my history and what, exactly, I did have in mind.

I started sailing about 10 years prior with a friend who owned an older C&C 35. He took me sailing in the Apostle Islands on Lake Superior. We anchored out in a protected island bay. I fell in love with sailing instantly. I was fascinated by how everything worked, the nuance of sail trim, reading the wind off the waves, the satisfaction of a well-executed tack and the sound of gurgling water in our wake. I decided right then and there that this is what I wanted to do. Every chance I could get. Over the next 10 years I sailed with friends on little 22’ boats on little lakes, upgrading to 27’ boats on larger lakes and occasionally crewed for that wonderful 35’ C&C on Lake Superior. I graduated to chartering some larger boats with a friend and spent a lot of time up in the Apostle Islands getting to know the area, the people and the sailing culture they embraced.

I made every mistake I could. Well almost... I still had not made the mistake of owning my own boat.

As with most people who dream of days on the water under sail, I was convinced I wanted to sail around the world… or at least make a serious lifestyle change and sail around the Caribbean for a few years. I read everything Hal Roth had ever written. I was convinced that this dream was achievable. Over time, my wonderfully supportive girlfriend, Nicole, began to see it too. We talked of days spent out on the open water, nights at anchor and the hypothetical perils of heavy weather.

I was always shopping for a boat online or driving through marinas. Always on the lookout for that perfect boat for the right price (as close to free as possible). We are not rich. But I had a budget. I was saving. I could scrape together a few thousand dollars if I needed. But this dream was for a different class of people. The kind of blue water boat I had dreamed of was in the "over $40,000" price range… and that’s for a fixer-upper. And while I have hung some drywall and attached a water heater, I had never worked on a boat and wasn’t particularly handy. I had never even changed my own oil and didn't own a single power tool. But there she was. Covered in leaves and old painter’s tape from project’s long since abandoned. I had found her.

This had disaster written all over it.