Adieu

I never understood the name my boat wore when she came to me, “Sleepy Lady.” But boat names are personal, and I didn’t need to. I tried several other names in the beginning, but my daughter said “Foxy” was playful. “Foxy” was uncommon and easy to say on the radio. “Foxy” she was.

It had taken me a long time and deep thought to find her. I wanted a boat that would always exceed any capability I might develop. I didn’t know then that almost any boat would, but I especially respected the design by Steve and Linda Dashew. Foxy was what I’d been creating in my mind’s eye: overbuilt, purposeful, fast, capable, over-provisioned, economical to run.

So of course, I changed some things. But every silly idea, every long-contemplated change, every required equipment replacement, was an expression of respect: respect for the ocean, respect for the endeavor of being out there in the Pacific Northwest, respect for the thought and experience and values that went into her original creation. My changes, for better or worse, weren’t just to “make Foxy mine.” I hoped to “make her better.”

A few changes I remain just absurdly proud of: The wireless control that allowed me to drop or raise the anchor from the helm was one. I usually ran Foxy by myself. The 50 feet along the deck, from the wired anchor controls at the bow to the throttle and steering wheel at the stern, could be a long, long way if the wind turned 60 seconds of inattention into a close brush with other boats or rocks on the shore.

There was the new pilothouse: I wanted more shelter from Pacific Northwest weather than the boat came with from the British Virgin Islands. I wanted a place to sleep outside even when it was raining, a place to stretch out my legs and drink coffee and write in the morning.

But I was desperately afraid of ruining Foxy’s appearance. I agonized, filling about a ream of paper with sketches. When I had a nearly finished idea, six companies that built pilothouses for sailboats refused to build what I wanted. Finally, Derrick of San Juan Canvas in Friday Harbor and I created a space that to my eye looked like it was part of the original Steve and Linda Dashew design.

I won’t drag readers through each modification: the toilet that flushed with gray water from the shower, the wireless radar, the Automatic Identification System, design changes to the alternator installation, repositioning of regulators, new refrigeration, rebuilding the propane supply, constructing the solar energy system, and on, and on. I didn’t do all of those by myself, but was involved with each one.

More was planned. But I ran out of time. I grew older than my dreams.

This happens, even to a pirate. Perhaps more to a pirate because, well, a pirate’s life has its own limitations. It wasn’t just the loss of sight in one eye (how much more pirate can you get?!?) or fatigue that seems to start earlier each day and last longer. Issues one would rather not face by oneself in some quiet bay, even with a radio on board to call for help.

Even the idea of visiting new ports, alone, still again, can lose some appeal. Foxy had a hand in that, too. She was more than once viewed as “the other woman,” and more than once it was not believed that it was Foxy to visit and not mermaids when I said I needed to spend “time on the water.”

There are memories, so many memories. They span the heart from laughter to the truly tragic. The losses are as significant as the adventures. Life on the water is… life, after all. But on the water, in a boat, that life is lived as through a lens, a magnifier, if you will. No, no need to share beyond that. Laughter, loss, adventure.

Many boats lie lonely at anchor, or scrub constantly against a dock in marinas, or stand awkwardly on sticks on “the hard.” It’s hard to let go of a boat, and it can be difficult to sell one. It’s a cliché oft repeated that the day one sells a boat is second in joy only to the day one acquires it.

But a boat like Foxy has her own aura. Often on the water in a bay, someone would pull up alongside in a dinghy and ask about her. If they knew what she was, they’d want to know more, or share stories of their own. If they didn’t know, they wanted to. There are people looking for a vessel of her somewhat unusual characteristics.

And they found her.

Foxy was purchased last month by a couple, now living in the Pacific Northwest but from around the world. It’s not my place to tell their story, but I can say that I could not be happier to hand the helm of my Foxy over to these two wonderful people.

They are imaginative, creative, disciplined, energetic, and far more knowledgeable than I was when I first stepped on board, and the same age I was when Foxy became my dream.

One of the first things they asked was what was next on my list of “to dos.” It took me two days to answer. We went from bow to stern, sat in the cockpit or in the salon, exploring ideas, experiences from various places all over the world, future tasks and dreams. They will bring Foxy back to a standard she deserves, allow her to become all she can be.

It would be a cliché to say it felt like I’d known this couple for years after just meeting them, but that’s what I felt and I think they did too. There was instant rapport. We talked freely, asking and answering questions without much caution, almost as if there was a desire to fill in necessary details since we were already friends.

Yes, it’s bittersweet to let Foxy go. It would be a lie if I said it was all just fine, only a good thing, without melancholy. But I could not have found anyone better to take Foxy on to her next adventures — a couple who will add their own improvements, who have the ability and imagination to recreate her in the image of their own dreams.

Even the name they have in mind is subtle, elegant. It communicates everything, without saying too much.

Good-bye, Foxy. Hello, “Tacit.”