Open Channel

This new column is designed to allow our readers to share their thoughts with other boat owners beyond that of a letter-to-the editor. The following is our choice for the best answer to last issue's question, "What makes boating so special?" For our next issue we would like to hear from you about "Your best day on the water." Send your most insightful 700 words to Editor@BoatUS.com. We'll publish the most interesting in our May issue and post the best of the rest on BoatUS.com.

My dad was a shop teacher. He taught me a lot about making and fixing things. Teachers didn't make much money. He taught me to scrounge, to be creative and to make do well with what you've got. He always gave me room to experiment and to explore. He was truly a great man and father.

We had a summer home on Cape Cod. I was a beach kid and an avid snorkeler. On a camping trip to Maine, a daughter of our friends introduced me to a Sunfish and I was hooked. I couldn't afford to buy a boat, but Dad raised a good scrounger. An old family friend had hooked a lateen sail while fishing at a local creek. I traded 100 sea clams (the wares of my snorkeling) for that sail. I researched sailboat building at our town library and Boston Public Library.

Then I designed my first boat. It was an eight-foot sailing dinghy with high freeboard. I built it in our basement, took it outside to fiberglass the seams, then I sent my folks out to the movies so that I could paint it. Mom had just installed new wall-to-wall carpet in the living room, and it was too cold to paint outside. No, I did not get a drop on the carpet; but the house reeked of paint fumes. It was red with a white diagonal strip on it, and I could carry it to the water from my truck. The mast was a handrail, and the spars were closet poles, and some diving weights kept the rudder from floating up. It worked. When my folks passed away, in my dad's small pile of "personal treasures," were two pictures of that boat. I never knew he was so proud of me.

As a kid, I'd sit on the beach and watch the big boats and I would dream. Sometimes dreams are forgotten; yet sometimes they don't disappear, but rather, they quietly wait to be reawakened. My first marriage failed, and I had two wonderful daughters to visit me at times. I wanted to experience special fun with them; I wanted to teach them to sail.

For $600 I bought a storm damaged MacGreggor 23. The mast was bent in two. The forward chainplate had knifed through the foredeck. The port winch was torn out and hanging as if on leather. And the keel was out and on the ground.

That winter I went entirely through the boat and At His Mercy was born. I epoxied the bottom, painted in and out, covered the cushions, and made many improvements in and out.

Last winter my mother expired and this summer I had some money to invest for the future. On a miserably hot August day, I drove to Maine to seek coolness and a break. I looked at harbors, and I looked at boats. I found the "Old Cape Cod" attitude there. I felt at home, at peace. I found Trilogy there too. She was old and solid with classic lines, a Bill Tripp design. She needed help, but I saw her true beauty.

On Labor Day weekend my daughters and I trailered At His Mercy to Maine and we explored the bay and Witch Island. On one particular run through the Thread of Life, we got the main out to port, the inner jib out to starboard, and the furling genny out to port also, and we ran like this for nearly an hour-- JOY! On Labor Day, we threw a going-away party for the boat's family. Folks came from as far away as Virginia for the occasion. Giving away the boat was like giving away a bride.

Now, Jan. 1, 2002, Trilogy and I anxiously await warmer weather so that epoxy and paint can cure. This time, with the help of my local BoatU.S. store, I am adding some "creature features" or comforts: a heater, a stove with a broiler, a fridge, and hot running water (showers!).

And I look back at that little red dinghy, look at the dreaming of those big yachts; and I look in my yard at Trilogy, a 1968 31' Seafarer, and I know it's real. And all I can say is thank you Dad, for all that you've taught me and for encouraging my freedom to experiment and to dream. And thank you for helping this one to become real.

By D. T. Lewis, Manchester, NH