I was unusually nervous as the travel lift loomed on the tarmac and noisily bumped along toward my boat. Maybe it was because after spending more money than I ever imagined I’d spend on a boat I wasn’t certain whether the insurance check would clear, or maybe it was something else? It was certainly something else. Carefully navigating between my two high and dry neighbors, the four-legged mechanical monster wrapped its tentacles around
Quetzal’s midsection and gently lifted her 30,0000 pounds into the air. Then she began her descent toward the sea. It was launching day and I was filled with a slew of conflicting emotions.
Sailors are always launching things: dreams, cruises, expeditions, their boats and their stories. Still, despite the plethora of books advising us on everything from how to understand the physics of sail shape, to how be the “perfect first mate,” there just isn’t much written about how to launch a boat. Mind you, I am not talking about the nuts and bolts of how a travel lift should hoist your boat, where the straps should be placed to minimize hull stress, what through-hull fittings should be checked first when the boat hits the water, etc. No, there is plenty of information available about that and the yard crews are usually good at what they do and don’t need our suggestions. I am talking about the emotional side of the issue. Launching is the ultimate metaphor for sailors; this is something that has to be done right.
Technically, launching and christening are two different events. Most sailors haul their boats every autumn only to launch them again the following spring. They don’t bother with pomp and circumstance each time the boat goes back into her natural element—they’re just relieved that the annual migration from land to sea is over and they can start sailing again. Christening is the ceremony for when a new boat is either first splashed or an old boat is renamed, but I confess I don’t like this distinction. People are christened; boats should be launched.
My “new” boat is 18 years old and apparently spent those first 18 years happily being called
Madrigal. This is a lovely name for a boat
—a madrigal is an unaccompanied vocal composition or lyric poem. However, as my many shipmates can attest, singing is just not one of my strong suits. In fact, I may have the worst voice to every ply the high seas. I know a lot of songs or I should say lyrics and I sing them all to the same monotone tune. And since changes were coming fast and furious in my life, the thought of masquerading as a beautiful singer was too much to contemplate. A new name had to be found.
I wanted to call the boat Zorba, after my all-time favorite book and literary character but this wasn’t acceptable to the new name panel, my two daughters. They first objected on the grounds that I couldn’t name the boat after a male (typical female stuff). I explained that plenty of classic sailboats had been named after men, including Bernard Moitessier’s famed steel ketch Joshua. Not completely convinced, they nonetheless nixed Zorba on the grounds that it was simply a stupid name for a boat. Seahorse was nominated, but we all agreed that somehow it sounded too Texan—horses belong on land. Quetzal, a beautiful bird of the rainforest, the sacred bird of the Maya, and one of the few creatures that will not stand for captivity—it has to be free or it dies—finally carried the day. The metaphor may be a bit obvious, but it is well suited for me.
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Of course some sailors swear that changing a boat’s name will ensure bad luck; I am not one of them. I have owned five used boats over the years and have changed the name of every one. The first, a sweet Alberg designed Bristol 27 had been owned by a fish broker and carried the name,
Lobster Mobster. I swear the boat audibly squealed with joy as I scrubbed that awful name off the stern. I renamed her
Jeanne, in honor of my mother who gave me the money to buy her in the first place.
The second boat was a Jeanneau Gin Fizz called
L’Ouranos, the French version of the Greek God of the Sky. It is a nice name, but no matter how I tried my Midwest slang made it sound like an unpleasant body part. My mother was responsible for the new name,
Epoch, and the boat was indeed a new epoch in her life as she bought it back from me and together with a friend eventually sailed it around the world.
My next boat was a sleek Swedish built cruiser called a Varne 27. It had been sailed across the Atlantic and abandoned in a Ft. Lauderdale boatyard. The yard owner, an ornery Irishman renamed her
Rattlesnake—talk about nightmares at sea. I changed her name to
Petrel. Finally, my beloved steel hulled Roberts 45 ketch was originally called
Lone Star. There is that Texas thing again, so she became
Fortuna.
All of these boats were launched with champagne.
Jeanne and
Fortuna had bottles smashed against their stems;
Petrel and
Epoch had bubbly poured over the bows. Now it was
Quetzal’s turn. Before you think I am cavalier about changing names rest assured that this does have to be done carefully. First, all vestiges of the old name must be removed and all traces of the boat’s former life, log books, paperwork, tee shirts, the works must be removed before launching. The identity change must be complete. Some traditionalists believe that after launching a renamed boat you must sail backward over the entire length of the boat to sweep away all bad luck. Unfortunately, I have never been very good at sailing backward, at least not intentionally and have had to trust my fate without the benefit of this maneuver.
The travel lift eased toward the haul out slip. Quetzal had spent the spring on the hard at Spring Cove Marina in Solomon’s, MD. If a boat has to be out of the water, this is the ideal place. The boatyard occupies a shaded, grassy knoll and is a very pleasant spot to complete even the most onerous chores. Of course I am biased—the marina is partially owned and operated by my sister and brother in law, Liz and Trevor Richards. Finally, Quetzal was perched over the slip, ready to be lowered into the tannic waters of the bay. Why was I so unsettled?
Maybe it was because I had put together a demanding sailing agenda and didn’t really have time for proper sea trials. Just a few weeks after launching I had two offshore training passages scheduled, the first from Solomon’s to Bermuda and the second from Bermuda north to Newport? But that wasn’t the reason, I’ve been making hasty passages for 20 years. Maybe it was because my personal life was in turmoil, yet a good friend calls me “the man in flux” and I’m steeled to the turmoil created by living with one leg on land and one at sea. Maybe it was the memory of a recent launching, just the week before actually, that was still troubling me.
I had flown to England to give a talk to the Contessa 32 Owner’s Association. Twenty years ago this year I sailed Gigi, a Contessa 32 around Cape Horn. The talk went well and before returning to Heathrow for my return flight I detoured to a chandlery in Portsmouth. Despite a weak dollar, liferafts are a good value in England and since I was there I decided to purchase a new offshore raft and heft it home on the plane. I had confirmed with American Airlines that I could include a liferaft with my luggage and they assured me that I was allowed one CO 2 item. I called again from the chandlery, just to make sure, and once again the American Airlines rep told me that I was allowed one CO 2 package. I purchased the raft and headed for the airport.
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At the baggage checkout counter the attendant asked me what was in the big box. I told him it was a liferaft. “Oh I’m sorry,” he said, “but you can’t take that on the plane.” Unfazed, I said I had already checked with the airlines and had been assured that I could check the raft. he attendant was adamant but I remained cool and asked to see his supervisor. She also said that I must have been given the wrong information, that I couldn’t bring the raft onto the plane. Now I was starting to sweat, but it is a touchy matter of getting angry in airports these days, especially in the heavily armed main terminal of the busiest airport in the world. Finally the manager came down to see what the problem was as people in the long line behind were getting noticeably antsy.
“Sorry,” he said in polite voice but one that left absolutely no room for compromise, “no liferafts on the plane.” I launched (there is that word again) into how I had been assured that it was OK to bring one CO 2 item. He showed me the memo from the FAA, it said clearly, all passengers are allowed to check on small CO2 item on international flights, then in six-inch letters below it said, EXCEPTIONS and first on the list was, LIFERAFTS.
By this time my flight was scheduled to leave in less than a half hour, and I was getting desperate. It was Sunday, there was no way to ship the raft via air cargo and I sure wasn’t going to leave my new $1,500 purchase behind. Also, I had to be home the next day to head up to Maryland to launch the boat—everything was pre-arranged, including airline tickets. I decided to act English. Doing my best to stay calm, I said, “It looks like we have a problem, what we need is a solution.” When nothing in the way of a solution was offered, just some head nodding and agreement that we did indeed have a problem, I canned the calm routine and in classic American fashion starting shouting.
This worked better and the manager finally said, “Well is there is there anyway to disarm the raft? Then you could ship it.” I was sick at the thought of removing the CO 2 canister from my brand new raft but it seemed to be my only alternative. “Well, I guess I can take a look.”
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I carefully opened the valise pack and reluctantly cut the waterproof plastic bag. Then, feeling around, I felt the canister. I swear I just nudged it, hoping to get a better look when suddenly
—Psss
—the liferaft began to inflate. I’d launched my liferaft in the most crowded section of Heathrow airport! The hissing raft, unfolding like a monster, knocked over nearby luggage and the little rope line divider. People began screaming. Within seconds I was shoved against a wall by several policemen and had an automatic rifle pressed against my head. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced over as the raft assumed its final, fully inflated shape. The American Airlines manager insisting to the Bobbies that I wasn’t dangerous looked at me sympathetically for the first time. Despite the fact that I was being treated as a liferaft wielding terrorist all I could do was laugh. “Well,” I guess I don’t have a CO 2 problem anymore,” I told him.
It must have been the image of that disastrous launching just days before still churning in my brain that made me so nervous. When
Quetzal was just a foot above the water, the travel lift operator stopped her descent. Liz, Trevor, and I hopped aboard. Liz broke out the champagne. As the boat was lowered into the water she splashed the bow and exclaimed, “May the Gods bless
Quetzal and all who sail in her.” It was a perfect launching. What a relief.
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