One of the Paths That Have Made Themselves

One of the Paths That Have Made Themselves, Arthur Rackham, 1912

I drive down I-40, a route I’ve been on thousands of times without incident or concern, but this time, I’m hunched over the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, eyes darting side to side. In a pitiful whimpery voice, I mutter, “Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me,” as reckless drivers careen past me on both sides. Ever since the kids were born, I’ve been a nervous driver, but this day I am quite beside myself. The culprit is in the very back, lying innocently on top of its frame and glass, a piece of paper with ink on it.

The drawing hung in my childhood bedroom in Manhattan for forty years. It’s a park scene with soaring trees and children playing with hoops on a rutted path. I never much cared for it, being sort of faded and dark and I always thought the children looked the slightest bit ghoulish. I would have left it in my father’s apartment when he passed away, except that my ex was determined that we take everything, since my father had left his wife the apartment and me the contents. The painting was unceremoniously shoved in a box and hauled south to North Carolina.

I spent the next ten years going through Dad’s things, which included crumpled scraps of paper, scattered Q-tips and folded envelopes containing ancient seashells. All his furniture, books and bits of bric-a-brac had to be sorted, given away or sold. It was a monumental task. The drawing, among other things, was temporarily stored in the barn, a sturdy, if somewhat dilapidated structure, with paintless, weathered siding, along with the rest of my father’s wall art, including a signed photograph of actress Ava Gardner and a wall hanging we acquired on a trip to Egypt in the 1970s.

When I finally finished renovating the old farmhouse, I brought the box of framed art into the house. It was a little dusty, but all my father’s things were dusty, having survived the smoke and ash fall after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. When I started going through them, I immediately took two prints to the thrift shop. They were dark and not my style. I picked up the pen and ink drawing to put in the same pile, but at the last minute, I noticed two faded cards carefully taped to the back. I noticed they were from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Art and had an official look to them. Resigned to having to deal with this further, I put the drawing back in the box and forgot about it for months.

In a flurry of get-rid-of-clutter activity, I ran across the drawing again some months later. A closer look at the cards on the back revealed the name of the artist, Arthur Rackham. Wikipedia gave me an increased appreciation for the drawing, since Rackham famously illustrated many beautiful children’s books, most notably Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  I took a look on eBay and found prints selling for a couple hundred dollars. This one would not be bound for the thrift store, but I didn’t have time to put it up on eBay either. I plopped it back in the box again, where it sat unheeded for another few months.

In the next clutter-clearing episode, I contacted a friend who I knew collected antiques and he suggested I call a dealer friend, a man named George McNeill. I found George delightfully friendly and chatty and when I mentioned the drawing to him, he insisted I must take it out of the frame and mat to see if it had a signature. Because of the cards on the back, he suspected it might be a valuable piece of art, but without a signature, it was worthless. With trembling hands, I carefully cut away the brown paper, which had protected the drawing since 1939, the date on the cards. I tucked the cards into an envelope and gingerly pulled the drawing away from the mat. There, concealed for seventy years under the mat board, penned inside an inked scroll it read, “Rackham 1912.”

I gasped. This was no print. This was an original pen and ink drawing by the most famous and well-regarded illustrator of the twentieth century. I burst into tears. My father, the absent-minded and pre-occupied physician, had no idea what this drawing was or what it was worth. It had been a gift from a wealthy patient; something he dutifully hung on the wall and paid various housekeepers to dust, while he went about the business of saving people’s lives.

Further research showed the little drawing, just 9 X 12 inches without the mat and frame, to be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of ten to twenty thousand dollars. Panicked, I wrapped the drawing in acid-free watercolor paper and tucked it carefully into a large portfolio case I bought for storing old pictures. I put the envelope with the cards in next to it, zipped it up and leaned it against the wall in my office where it glowered at me unhappily. I sent off to Christie’s and Sotheby’s for auction estimates and tried to forget about it.

About a week later, I was lying in bed listening to a dramatic spring rain pelt the roof. The wind was screaming and the rain seemed hurled from buckets, splashing the windows like something out of an old movie set, stagehands flinging bucketful’s of water from the wings. Out of this din, another sound emerged, an irregular tapping sound. Alone in the house, it was up to me to discover the source of this sound. Shivering and afraid, I crept into the hall and discovered the sound coming from my son’s bedroom. Turning on every light I could, I saw the culprit as soon as I got into his room.

The roof was leaking in two places, wet puddles on the floor and a bookshelf. In the next room, practically unprotected with its zipper exposed to the ceiling, lay the drawing. I whirled away from the widening puddles, snatched up the portfolio case and removed it to the safest part of the house, behind the bathroom door, our safe place in case of tornado or hurricane. I grabbed a flannel-backed vinyl tablecloth from a kitchen drawer and draped it carefully over the portfolio case, folding several layers to cover the exposed zipper completely. No roof leak would mess with my treasure now.

Another week went by and I had somehow managed to forget the drawing when I was again awakened by a sound in the middle of the night. It was not the roof leaking; it was not even raining. It sounded like someone was rolling golf balls on my wood floors: Roll, roll, roll, stop. Roll, roll, roll, roll, stop. Silence. I tried to go back to sleep. A minute later, a soft banging sound and scratching came from right behind my head. Two thoughts came instantly into my head at once. First, the sound was from mice. Second, the sound was coming from the exact spot where the painting was propped against the wall in the bathroom in the portfolio case, which was full of paper, the perfect material for mice to chew into nesting material.

I shot out of bed as if propelled by a rocket, yanked the portfolio case away from the wall and found a pecan behind it. The little bastard had lifted the round shelled nut from a bowl in the living room, rolled it down the hall and was trying to get it into the gap between the drywall and the flooring. Burning with fury, I relocated the portfolio case, making sure the tablecloth was fully covering it and re-baited three mousetraps. I set one next to the pecan, one under my dresser, a favorite spot of mice in the past, and one in the kitchen. Heart pounding, I went back to bed. I had barely shut my eyes when I heard the first satisfying snap behind my head. With relief, I rolled over. Another snap came a minute later, under my dresser. I waited for the third, but it never came. Once my heart stopped pounding, I slept easier.

Two weeks went by when I was returning from a business trip to Charlotte, listening to the radio. I was about forty miles from home when the broadcast was interrupted by the emergency broadcast tones. It had been threatening to rain for the past hour, the sky ahead heavy with that ominous purple cast indicating the possibility of severe thunderstorms. The emergency announcement was for severe thunderstorms as well as possible tornadoes. Fear settled into my gut. My great grandfather had built my house after his previous home had been picked up and dashed to splinters by a tornado in 1884. His infant son died from injuries sustained during the storm. I was scared of tornadoes.

The painting was still in the bathroom, but it was not in the very safest place, the toilet room, because I was worried about moisture. Never mind that the thing was completely mummified by my protective efforts, I was nervous. As I drove into increasingly heavy rain and wind, the radio announcer abandoned the regular programming and gave his full attention to the storm, which had apparently begun to turn “cyclonic” (this turned my blood cold) and was forming up near Fuquay-Varina, a town just twenty miles west of my house. Naturally, the storm was headed east, with my house right in the path.

I slowed to a crawl in the torrential rain, grabbed my phone and called Eric to make sure he knew about the tornado watch. My first thought was for him and the neighbors with the toddler who lived in the trailer next door. I made sure they knew to come over and take shelter in the toilet room. Having survived Hurricane Fran, I suggested they fill some containers with water in case of long-term power outage. I tried not to think about the drawing, but all I could see were images of the house in a heap of timbers like a child’s game of pic-up-stix, the drawing sodden and ruined beneath it all.

The storm downed some trees and did some damage on the east side of Fuquay, but didn’t even cause a strong wind at my house. I felt as if I had dodged another bullet. I couldn’t wait to get that drawing out of the house. The auction estimate had come in from Sotheby’s confirming the value at between fifteen and twenty-five thousand. I inquired about commissions and fees, but never heard back. In another burst of clutter clearing, I called George McNeill about another item and mentioned to him about the drawing. Delighted, he crowed his glee at my good fortune and suggested I call his colleague Leland Little, owner of a well-regarded local auction company.

I sent Claire, Leland’s fine art person, an email with photos of the drawing, its dimensions and provenance, as requested. Less than twenty-four hours later, I received an enthusiastic phone call.

“We would love to include your drawing in our June sale,” she informed me.

“What about your commission?” I asked her with some skepticism.

“We charge a flat twenty percent.”

“That’s it?” George had warned me about Sotheby’s and Christie’s, how they would not only charge a hefty commission, but would also tack on fees for things like appraisals and insurance.

“Yup,” Claire said, “just a flat twenty percent.”

As I pondered this, she said, “The only thing is, in order for us to get into the June sale, we’d need to have it here by Friday.” It was Wednesday.

As luck would have it, I was traveling to Chapel Hill that very afternoon, within spitting distance of Leland Little Auction Company in Hillsborough. I told Claire I would think about it, hung up and called Eric and my mother.

They both agreed that since I had not heard a peep from Christie’s or gotten a response from Sotheby’s about commissions it seemed like serendipity to let Mr. Little handle the sale. Even better, I could get it out of my house and safely into the hands of those who would take care of it. This is how I found myself on I-40, driving like a nervous old woman. I told the kids at least five times not to throw anything in the back of the car, where the drawing lay relatively unprotected in a cardboard portfolio I’d repurposed for transport. They shrugged and went back to quietly reading. It wasn’t as if they were bored, agitated toddlers apt to fling leaky sippy cups on top of my priceless artwork, but still. I felt like a circumnavigator on the last leg of a perilous voyage.

In the course of researching the drawing, trying to ascertain its place in the long, illustrious career of Arthur Rackham, I made an educated guess looking at Wikipedia. Among the books Rackham had illustrated was a book by J.M. Barrie, called Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. The trees and the children playing in my drawing certainly seemed like they were in a park setting, so I clicked on the link (I love Wiki!) and found myself transported to Project Gutenberg where I found the entire book lovingly reproduced in faithful quality and full color. Right there in chapter one, I found my trees and frolicking children. The illustration bore the caption, “One of the Paths That Have Made Themselves.” In J.M. Barrie’s imaginative and inimitable prose, she described how the paths create themselves as if by magic, the very sort of magic from whence comes Peter Pan, I’m sure.

It has been an honor and blessing to have found such a path myself with this beautiful and special work of art. It certainly feels like magic to have been entrusted with its safety. I’m especially glad just to have it out of the house. In an earlier conversation with George McNeill, he told me with fatherly concern (my father was also named George) that I was not to let the money languish in my bank account to be used for groceries or paying the electric bill. I had a duty to make sure the proceeds were spent wisely, on something that would continue to bring me joy and satisfaction for many years and maybe even grow in value.

I’m pleased to say that I already have the perfect plan for the money. That little painting will buy me a liveaboard sailboat, on which I will live happily ever after as the paths open up before me, as if by magic.

Possibly a boat like this one. Her name means "In Passing," a good name for a boat, in my opinion.

Snowboat

Frying Pan sunset

It’s only been three weeks since we left our sister boat, Sara Jean, in Islamorada, FL, but already Eric and I champing at the bit to get aboard our own sweet Willadine. The forecast looks promising with only a 20% chance of rain and temps in the 50s and 60s. We figure the snow, which fell and accumulated to four inches on Wednesday, will be well gone by Friday, this being the South and all.

We set off down our hard frozen driveway, over the eighteen-inch snow berm the plow left and strike out over dry road. It’s well below freezing still, but we just know from the forecast that it will be warming up to at least forty and then no cooler overnight. I’m wearing my long johns and have packed a wool sweater and an extra set of long johns in my bag. I hate to be cold and even fifty is cold to me, but the forecast calls for well above fifty and even up to seventy on Sunday.

The sun is beaming down on us and by the time we hit Little Washington, I’m stripping off layers. It’s going to be gorgeous we just know it. We are so excited to see our little boat, the marina and the river. Even if there’s no wind (there wasn’t much in the forecast) we’ll be happy to putter out to our little anchorage in the Frying Pan and just hang out there all weekend. It’s a beautiful spot, just one little house in the small bay and the Frying Pan a ring of marsh with water in the middle, a nice barrier from the swell of the larger river.

Things begin to get a little dicey when we pull off the highway onto Kelly Rd. It’s pretty icy still, with patches of clear road and some patches still covered with snow. Right at the entrance to the marina, the snow is still very deep and we begin to slide a little making the turn. The Toyorolla makes the turn fine, but we begin to worry about getting Willadine out of her parking space. As often happens, we are worried about entirely the wrong thing.

The marina lot is covered in several inches of snow and the shady side of Willadine is very slick on top, apparently having melted and then frozen again. It’s still freezing, no sign of a melt yet, but we’re unconcerned. It’s sunny and within an hour of our arrival, the snow begins to melt in the sunny spots. This is much-needed encouragement because Willadine’s cockpit has become the host for a very large snowdrift. The snow is piled up nearly to the cabin top and is three inches deep on the cockpit floor, but it doesn’t look like that big of a deal to brush out. 

No biggie, right? Just a little soft snow...

I suggest Eric make use of the tiny plastic dustpan to start scooping while I go to see Conway Potter, our marina owner, to borrow a shovel.

Conway is one of the great blessings of our lives. He is one of the sweetest, nicest people I’ve ever met. He always has a smile and a few minutes to chat. He’s free with local knowledge and never fails to give us good advice. I find him in the garage, at his workbench, and he tells me with a shy grin that he’s been “crabbin’.”

“You have?” I ask, puzzled. I know he likes to fish, but I didn’t think he was into commercial crabbing.

He laughs and says, “Come see!”

On his workbench are two perfect orange crabs, mounted in fighting position on two pieces of driftwood.

“Oh,” I say, “Those are incredible! I love the color.”

“Oh no,” he says, shaking his head and chuckling, “These aren’t done. That’s what they look like after they’re cooked.”

I can tell he thinks I’m a nut-job, but he knows me by now and treats me with generous indulgence. On a bench in the back of the shop are the finished mounted crabs. They are absolutely beautiful; each one a perfect work of nature enhanced by Conway’s amazing artistry.

Conway's Crab (the photo does not do it justice, at all)

“Each one has nine layers of paint,” he explains, “starting with all white to cover the orange and then different shades of green, gray and blue.”

The crabs are miraculously lifelike with shiny black eyes, bright blue under the carapace and perfect spiky shells. They are at least as handsome as they were in life, in my opinion, although I’m sure the crabs would disagree. Off to the side is a small pile of driftwood, which I happen to know he collected himself from a special place up in the Albemarle River.

“This one’s going to make a lamp,” he tells me, holding up a particularly lovely piece of driftwood with a curved branch on one side. I can imagine the soft glow of a lamp on one of those crabbies and decide on the spot that it would be a perfect gift for my mother, who loves this sort of thing. Then I remember that Eric is waiting for the shovel, so I bid Conway farewell and head out with the shovel.

Eric is very happy to see the shovel, because the plastic dustpan is in pieces from hacking away at the ice-hardened snow. It’s pushing three o’clock now and I begin to get nervous about getting the boat trailer down to the ramp. I have nightmarish visions of the trailer sliding down the ramp and out to sea, taking Conway’s pick-up truck with it. In spite of the forecast, I don’t think it’s hit forty degrees. The shady spots are still pretty frozen. Up in the cockpit Eric asks if I want to fill the water jugs, which we usually do before we launch. Because I’m nervous about whether we can even get her across the parking lot to the ramp, I suggest we wait and do it at the dock. Eric agrees.

While I return the shovel, Eric brings the truck around and starts hitching her up. Happily, he has no trouble driving on the icy snow and the boat slides off her trailer amenably, now that she has new slippery carpet on her trailer bunks. All is well. As is our habit, I go aboard to ready the boat while Eric hoses down the trailer and fetches the car so we can unload our stuff into the boat. Unfortunately, the cockpit is a skating rink, with a good quarter inch of ice on all surfaces. I throw a bucket of water on it, but it only seems to exacerbate the problem. I try brushing with a broom and begin hacking at it with the broom handle to little effect. My mind quickly solves the problem.

“Eric,” I say, “Do you have an ice scraper in the Toyorolla?”

He grins at me. “You bet.”

I chip away at the ice rather effectively, musing about how this is one tool you really don’t want to have to carry on your boat, at least I sure don’t. But it does the job.

By the time we leave dock, the sun is down behind the trees. It’s cold on the water with the wind in our faces, but we’re so happy to be out on the water we don’t even care. I’ve got my two extra layers on and my hat with my hood up so I’m pretty comfy. My feet are wet and chilled, but I’m willing to overlook this. We make our way out to the Frying Pan with some elation. The sun will be near sunset as we anchor and we are excited to sit back and enjoy it with a glass of wine and a snack.

On the way into the little bay, we see a strange surface on the water ahead. Nearing it, we can see what it is. I dive below for the camera while Eric slows down the boat so I don’t miss it. It’s ice. The creek has been frozen.

We laugh this off, reassuring ourselves that it’s not going to freeze at night, according to the forecast and so it will all thaw by tomorrow. Eric throws out the anchor, I back down and set it and we turn to watch the sunset. Eric is still standing on the bow when I hear him say, “We’re screwed,” in a rather forceful way.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, looking around for what might imminently sink the boat or otherwise wreak havoc.

“We forgot the water,” he says, bursting out laughing.

“What about the emergency water?”

“We used it up on Sara Jean. Did you bring a water bottle?”

“No, I left it in the car.”

We shake our heads at our stupidity and decide to watch the sunset and then motor back to the dock. I feel at fault in this for not filling the jugs when Eric suggested it, but Eric assures me that we will have fun at the dock anyway. The important thing is just being on the boat, spending time on the water. You can see why I love Eric so much. He’s a wonderful partner.

Back at the dock it’s still very cold, but we go below, fire up our little propane heater, defrost and drink our cold Cabernet. Even though it’s only about 7:30, we hit the sack. It’s too cold not to, even with the heater. We have one down sleeping bag and two lighter weight ones and it’s cold. Eric has gone to bed without socks or a hat (the forecast, you know) and he suffers with the cold for several hours before digging around for a hat and socks. Still, it’s cold. The sleeping bags shift over us when we roll over and leave freezing gaps. When we finally decide to get up, Eric uses a fingernail to scrape ice off the inside of the skylight above us. So much for a low of forty, it’s twenty-one degrees. The cockpit is thick with rime ice and the creek has frozen around the boat. 

We have to laugh, because we can’t believe it. We can see our breath inside the cabin. It’s freezing. Still, we remain in good spirits, although Eric is exhausted from lack of sleep and suffering a bad headache. I suggest we drive to Bath for a hot breakfast (and good hot coffee too) at The Country Kitchen. He readily agrees. We order spinach omelets with hash browns and a biscuit and linger over our coffee.

It’s still cold outside, but by the time we leave, it’s noticeably warmer. Not warm, but warm-er. And the sun is blazing cheerfully overhead. In the parking lot, the snow is beginning to melt. The cockpit is drying out so I take a walk around with my camera and have some fun with the ice and an old fishing boat on stands in the yard.

The sun is so cheerful, I just want to bask in it a little, so Eric putters around stowing things while I lie back in the cockpit and soak up rays. For the first time, I feel comfortably warm, although I am still decked out in my four layers, coat and hat. It feels so good. It’s all been worth it. When I sit up to get a drink, I see the clouds moving in from the SW. They don’t look too bad, just sort of scattered, but we can see some darker clouds behind it and we haven’t forgotten the twenty percent chance of showers. We decide we’d better get going while the going is good.

I cast off the docklines while Eric drives us out to the Frying Pan again. We are just rounding the far dock when I see the rain on the water. At first, it’s just a light shower, barely a misting, but by the time we get the anchor down it’s raining in earnest. We are still hanging onto the forecast in our minds, calling for seventy degrees the next day. Unfortunately, there is an increased chance of rain with that too. We hope it will be a sixty percent chance of sun, but we’re resigned to our fate by now. After all, it is just February first, what did we expect?

Back at anchor, with water tank filled, we boil water and have tea, which is exceedingly soothing and pleasant and we have hot boat stew for supper. A can of rice and beans with a can of Margaret Holmes (our favorite brand) collard greens is a fine repast. Neither of us regrets our decision to go boating in winter. It’s totally worth it.

Sunday morning we are completely socked in with a dense fog. Eric chirps brightly about how it’s going to burn off and be sunny and seventy, but by now, I’m skeptical. I lounge around the boat all morning while Eric works on the electrical panel. After lunch, we nap and when we wake up there is some hint of blue coming through the fog overhead. An hour later, it’s bright and sunny, and although not quite seventy (or even sixty?) it’s much cheerier and more pleasant than it’s been all weekend. A light wind comes up and we gleefully hoist full sail. We sail out just past the green marker when the little breeze dies and leaves us bobbing in the river. We don’t even care. We sailed so our weekend is complete. Eric laboriously scrapes the old peeling finish off the wood of the stern rail seats while I bask in the sun and admire the glassy water all around us. We have to motor back to the dock, but we don’t care. At least we’re not freezing anymore.

Four Nights and Five Days of Harrowing Bliss

Our Route, North Creek to Atlantic, NC

Every time we've left the dock at Potter’s for the past eighteen months, we’ve admired a neighbor’s boat on the way past.  Contessa is a white-hulled, ketch-rigged beauty with a curvaceous shear line and a sexy, no-nonsense center cockpit.  Several times, we’ve kayaked around her, all but stroking her clean gel-coat finish in our admiration.  Every time we pass her house, in the car or the boat, we peer into the carport to see if her people are there.  In all this time, we’ve only seen them once before and we had no time to stop that day.  This past weekend after an eventful and dramatic time sailing, we got to meet her people, at last.

 

We arrived at the boat early on Thursday, excited about two extra days of sailing.  After looking at the forecast we sailed downwind farther than we’ve been before, crossing the sound at the mouth of the Neuse River, a place notorious for hazardous weather and some treacherous sailing.  We made it all the way into Turnagain Bay, through a cut to West Bay:

Cut from Turnagain Bay to West Bay

and through another cut and under a bridge to a protected anchorage in Thorofare Bay.  We did not use our motor once, we sailed the whole way, just the way we like it.

Thorofare Bay Bridge, Cedar Island, our second bridge of the trip

Unfortunately, the “protected” anchorage in Thorofare Bay was also infested with mosquitoes.  This is an ongoing argument between us.  I always prefer the more rolly, breezy anchorages (rocks me to sleep and soothes the hot flashes) and Eric opts for the “protected” ones, in case of a stronger blow.  In his defense, the night before we had been so rocked in our unprotected anchorage that we were several times shaken awake by the rolling.  We spent a miserable night in Thorofare Bay being tortured by mosquitoes and were very happy to get out of there when dawn finally came.

We were so relieved when dawn came

The northeast wind held and we sailed off the anchor and over across Core Sound to the Core Banks.  We ran aground looking for a way into a tiny island called Dump Island.  Eric jumped over the side, grabbed Willadine’s bow and pulled her free and into what little channel there was.  We threw the anchor down in about two feet of water (we love our shallow draft boat!) and paddled over to the spit separating the sound from the Atlantic.  Ominous clouds gathered as we speed-walked to the sea, stuck our feet in (I would have gone all the way in, but the threat of rip currents was reported as very high and the surf was roiling in front of the dark cloud bank moving our way.)  We all but ran back to the kayaks and paddled back to Willadine.

After a light rain shower, we motored across the sound to Eric’s friend’s house in Atlantic.  As we admired his beautiful new house, the wind came up and the sky cleared and we took off in high spirits.  The wind had shifted just enough to the east so we could make a course back the way we came and by the time we entered West Bay again, we were running downwind to North Bay.  We anchored there on the backside of Cedar Island, looking across the narrow land to the Ocracoke Ferry landing.  As usual, we had the whole bay to ourselves, not even a fisherman to disturb our solitude.  Eric declared it his favorite anchorage so far.  We considered trying to hack through the marsh grass and hike to the restaurant, but abandoned the idea in favor of grilling some bratwurst we’d brought in the cooler.  After a long day on the water, that barbecued sausage was hot, salty and delicious.

Anchored in North Bay, in sight of the Cedar Island-Ocracoke Ferry

Winds started off light the next morning, but we sailed off anchor again (we love this!) and downwind back across the mouth of the Neuse toward Bay River.  Ominous clouds appeared around midday and by the time we were about a mile from Jones Bay, it was about as nasty as we’ve seen out there.  Eric thinks it was blowing fifty, although it didn’t seem that bad to me.  We were running with the wind, so you don’t feel it as much, but the sea attained a state that looked like giant fish scales with a pelting rain mashing down the waves.  Rumbles of thunder got louder and we began to see flashes.  We were making as fast as we could for the protection of the bay, running downwind with about three feet of headsail and making five and a half knots.  Our boat’s hull speed is six and a half, so this is outrageously fast for that little scrap of sail.

Dramatic, scary cloud

We had to shout over the rain, visibility reduced to a few hundred feet and we were thanking god for the GPS when lightning struck flash/boom very close to the boat.  We held our breath, but no more came.  We made it inside, soaked but exhilarated and Eric watched the anchor as the rain kept coming and we discovered several regrettable leaks in the cabin.  The next morning our bucket, left out in the cockpit overnight, was three quarters full of water.  We figured it had rained at least eight inches.

We enjoyed a rousing downwind run back home, sailing all the way into North Creek and celebrating our good fortune in having such fortuitous winds.  I was on deck putting out dock lines as we passed Contessa.  I heard music as Eric called out that someone was on board Contessa.  Luckily, we had time, so we stopped in and met Bill and Carol and heard all about the boat.  Turns out, she’s an Allied 36, one of only a few made and they’ve had her for some time.  We eagerly questioned them about her and when they inquired, we told them about our exciting weekend, including the near lightning strike.

“I’ll bet you’d have rather been anywhere else right then,” Bill said, shaking his head.

Eric and I sat stunned momentarily on their sofa.  Neither of us felt that way at all, we’d loved every minute and would rather be on our boat on the water than anywhere else in the world.  Of course, it was scary and humbling, but would we trade it for anything?  Never.  It’s totally worth it.  Dozens of mosquito bites and several sleepless nights were absolutely worth it.  We can’t wait to get out there again.  If you see my mom, just please don’t mention about the lightning, okay?  She worries about me enough.

Warm sunlight on sail