From the Bottom Up: A Captain's Message: We Can Save Mother Ocean and Us

By Harold Neel

This is a book about following your dreams. A collection of stories weaving together philosophies learned from an extraordinary life. Visions of sailing through tropical paradises, bizarre adventures and challenging struggles, describe what life looks like from the deck of a wooden schooner. Based on the proven faith that dreams do come true and a hopeful portrayal that our collective dreams can become a reality, it is a compelling call to action in our personal lives to affect the future of our world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483566252

Book preview

stories

1It Was Tom’s Turn

The first time we saw her she served us tequila. It was early on a Saturday morning in Newport when we discovered tequila was hard to find. We’d searched everywhere for some Jose Cuervo with no luck, and as Texas boys we were surprised, even though 9 am was an odd time of the day to be requesting shots. We naively thought every bar in the world had tequila

After taking shifts at the wheel for three days while driving straight through from Texas to Rhode Island, any concept of day or time, was irrelevant to us. At the previous bars which had just opened their doors, they listened to our accents, combined with the request for tequila, noted my long curly hair, and assumed we were dangerous. We could usually see the selection behind the bar and knew they were not lying about their lack of Jose, but their relief was obvious when we stormed out the door dismayed again that a bar could have all that liquor and no Jose Cuervo.

We weren’t actually dangerous; we were just out of tequila. The long drive had seen the half-gallon bottle we brought along completely consumed, even with rationing towards the end. Now that we had reached our final destination, we justifiably needed a shot to celebrate. After three fruitless attempts to find some of our favorite cactus juice, including a lot of backing up the trailer in tight spots, which is significantly easier after a shot of tequila, we had pulled up directly in front of a weather-beaten wooden building with a Heineken sign dangling just below the faded word, Steaks.

The tavern was dark and the heavy timbers gave it a rustic and bawdy style. We sat down near the only window and had the feeling this was our kind of place. Rock and roll was playing in the background and from our overstuffed booth we could see a casual courtyard out the back. Thick ropes and glass fishing floats adorned the walls with nautical bits of boats tangled in nets hanging from the ceiling. And importantly, we could see they had Jose Cuervo tequila in the collection behind the bar.

It turned out that Tom and I were to have many a burger at the comfortable Mudville Pub while waiting for our destiny. This was one in a series of moments over the next weeks that would combine to create an unusual path for my life to come.

The waitress walked over to our cozy corner of the empty steakhouse, and Tom and I were instantly smitten; she was absolutely gorgeous. When we mentioned we noticed tequila behind the bar, she smiled and her eyes shone with curiosity about our nature. Maybe she liked dangerous types.

Sure, we have some Jose, but the bar usually opens a bit later, she said with a slight laugh.

I grinned and said, Well, we just got in from a long drive, and would it be OK to serve us a bit early? She looked at each of the three of us with a twinkle in her eye and said, I'll see what I can do.

Tom and I were sitting with Michelle, who also endured the long trek from Texas and was herself an avid tequila fan. Michelle knew us both very well, although you wouldn’t have needed to know the two gob-smacked and near drooling young men to have assessed their thoughts.

Our eyes followed the lightness of her gait as the waitress crossed the deserted pub to pour our morning tequila shots. Her smile had let go her playful manner and when she looked into my eyes, I knew that she was as beautiful on the inside as she was stunning on the outside. With that one look I was in love. She had done the same thing to Tom. Michelle looked at us both and said, Down, boys.

Michelle and Tom and I had known each other for over six years. She too was beautiful and had the same effect on men as our waitress. Her big brown eyes were soft and intuitive; her long dark hair fell straight over her slight but curvy frame. Her sexiness came across with an elegant edge. She and I had enjoyed a few fantastic years as lovers, and stayed very close friends after our love affair had run its course.

Tom had been my best friend during all of that time. After Michelle and I had split up, she had a short affair with Tom. It makes sense that if she likes you then she would like him, because you like him and she likes you so she would like things that you like, such as him. The three of us were now soul-mates with a peaceful and undying friendship.

Sitting there in that empty steakhouse waiting for some shots, tired after days of driving, we were enjoying that friendship. Such a closeness and understanding among friends like that is a glorious thing to have in one’s life. No matter how troubled some moments of your life’s journey may be, those friends provide a bottom line for your salvation.

When the waitress came back, Michelle knew exactly what we were thinking. Our sensuous server stood with the tray of tequila, one hip shifted out, a bit of a smirky showing off, and asked what everyone does when confronted with a different accent, Where’re you guys from? You sound like you’re from the South.

Tom and I just stared, trying hard to focus while totally befuddled by her sparkling blue-green eyes and curvy figure so Michelle graciously answered, We just got in from Texas and are looking for the yacht club.

The three of us had driven thousands of miles, halfway across the country, just to race a sailboat. The one on the trailer. We were good. We hoped to win. We had taken two weeks off work and wiped out our collective savings, all to try and win the yearly Ensign National Championship Regatta. David, our fourth crewmember, was flying in to meet us the next day.

David was one of those friends as well, not to say we had dated the same women, but he was both my partner in business and in the boat. We had shared a lot of ups and downs. The four of us had raced together as a team for four years and were a tight crew, as well as fast friends. We had all been looking forward to this for a long time.

You’re sailors, eh? she said mockingly. Well, the yacht club is right down the street and to the left. My dad owns a fishing company, and his boats are just across the bay. I haven’t done much sailing, but I love being on the sea. Is there any water in Texas? I've always wanted to go there. I thought it was all desert and cowboys? Her voice was singsong and had a giggle behind it. She stood comfortably, not in a rush to leave. She was playing with a lock of her straight but bouncy blond hair.

I was processing. She likes the sea, maybe she would like sailing, she wants to go to Texas, she could stay at my house, and I could show her the lake and the Gulf of Mexico and prove there was water there.

I dreamed while Tom spoke up, Well, if you came to Texas I could show you all the water in the lake. We could go sailing there, and then we could drive down to the beach where there’s even more water. You could stay at my place if you wanted!

Nice work, Tom, I thought, Game on. What are friends for? I ordered another round of shots.

We stayed flirting and ogling her for a couple more rounds, but then more customers arrived for breakfast and we were deprived of her undivided attention.

Michelle and Tom and I toasted our successful arrival and reminisced about aspects of the trip like the mosquitoes from Arkansas, some of which were still trapped in the van. Long road trips are always blessed with odd moments. We had opened the sliding door in Arkansas to a swarm of the largest mosquitoes I’ve ever seen - and as they say, everything is bigger in Texas.

The guy who came out to pump the gas had no shirt on under his oversized blue jean coveralls; revealing his excessively hairy shoulders. When he waved, his hand was the size of a bear paw. His eyes didn’t quite look at the same place, and despite being well over six feet tall, he walked with a hunched-over, sort of beaten little kid shuffle.

And there was a skinny old guy, wearing a straw hat, sitting in a rocking chair, chewing on the end of a long piece of grass, and silently watching us through hollow eyes, as though he were collecting every detail of the moment and had lots of secrets.

In a much too tight, oil stained undershirt, the short potbellied mechanic had stepped out of the garage and was grinning lustfully at Michelle, fully displaying that he had no top teeth. She jumped back into the van, slamming the sliding door only to realize there were probably 1000 mosquitoes inside.

Tom and I bought some orange juice to mix with the tequila and paid for the gas. We considered orange juice and Tequila a health drink. We both accepted a fervent handshake from Bear Paws before getting into the van to be attacked mercilessly by the bloodsucking horde.

We hit the highway fast and rolled down all the windows to blow them out and even opened the sliding door. We suffered with them for thousands of miles. A silly detail of the journey, but we laughed as we showed our swollen bites to each other, and the tequila helped to make it all seem important.

We not so quietly sang the chorus of Crazy as done by Patsy Cline, which had become the theme song of the trip due to the cassette tape simply going round and round for hours on end. Tom loved to sing while he drove.

I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely. I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so blue. WORRY, we always got a little loud at this part, Why do I let myself worry, wondren, what in the world did I do……oooo…..ooo…. oooo….

The beautiful waitress was laughing at us when she brought us one more round of shots, giving Tom and me a last rush of hormones before it was time to move. As she arranged the fresh lime and salt, I said, We’ve got to go. But when we get the boat in the water, you’ll have to go sailing with us. This is Tom, and I’m Harold.

Michelle gave me one of those womanly sideways looks, leaving no doubt that I was a sod for not mentioning her, which I was. She chimed in, And by the way, I'm Michelle. We all shared a laugh tainted with the flirting, sexy energy that was so obvious.

Our waitress, now friend said, I’m Kristen, and I’d love to go sailing!

The air around us was so charged I felt sparks when I stood up to walk with Kristen to the bar and settle up the bill. I awkwardly repeated my invitation to go sailing and looked into her eyes.

She held my gaze as we stood alone together, and for me the rest of the world had disappeared. Immersed in what I saw in her, and feeling her looking deep into my essence as well, I let flood a look that told her what a million words would never adequately describe. Finally breaking the spell, some un-remembered words did tumble out, and I walked back to the table, trying to blame the tequila for my severe lightheadedness.

I didn’t know it, but I’d just met the woman who was to share extraordinary dreams with me, changing my life forever—dreams of a nature impossible to have believed at that moment, yet would incredibly come true. My fate had taken a turn, as had hers. We were destined to embark on a great journey together.

A sailor at our yacht club back in Austin had moved to Texas from Rhode Island, and his family estate was just outside of Newport. His ancient mother was the only resident of a sprawling wooden mansion. When we announced we were considering representing the Austin Yacht Club at the prestigious national event, he graciously offered us accommodations in the downstairs section of her house.

His shrunken mother welcomed us at the grand front door and showed us the downstairs where there was a separate kitchen and two small bedrooms. Mom was crotchety, but still polite and friendly. Her long grey hair was pulled into a tight bun and her faded flowery dress was older than I was. She moved slowly, complaining about how the damp made her joints hurt and that the hinges squeaked on the back door.

She was quite the sarcastic jokester and had us laughing as she described the inadequacies of her children, especially our friend Eric who had moved to Texas abandoning her there. She was the definition of a fine lady who had enjoyed a full life, elegant and vivacious in her time but now simply puttering around expecting the end any moment.

It was a mansion of the true New England style. Built in the early 1900s, it stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the vast Atlantic. There was a tennis court and a sprawling lawn spotted with enormous ageless trees. After settling in, we hid the key she gave us under a rock, unhitched the boat and headed for the yacht club.

There we were, on the eastern edge of America, in one of her oldest ports. It was amazing to see, for us simple lake sailors – huge yachts and tankers and docks and wharves and marinas and people dressed in the finest yachting wear. Newport is a sailor’s town and a mecca for the richest of the yachting world.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and in the yacht club was a collection of older sailors sitting at the bar. I noticed their shorts were pressed and creased, and they all wore what appeared to be brand new Sperry Top-Sider deck shoes. They seemed so immaculate I thought there must be a formal event about to happen. I was wrong; that’s just how they are. It was a far cry from the shirtless barefooted dress code of the good old Austin Yacht Club.

There was a table in the corner for regatta check-ins, so we filled out the entry forms while slightly aloof ladies, tough enough to be racing sailors yet cultured as well, explained all of the ins and outs of the regatta schedule and parties and dinner tickets and gave us maps of the town. They even opened an account for us at the bar, so we sat with the well-dressed old farts and, over a beer, learned about where we would moor the boat, how the water taxi¹ worked and that the hoist for launching our boat was available the next day.

Things seem very old in New England when you’re from Texas. As we walked along the boardwalk, we could feel the history of this seafaring town. The seafront buildings were of strong wood and stone construction with thick beams and heavy doors. They had a weathered look despite their spic paint jobs and shiny varnish, as though they’d survived a lot of ferocious storms, protected just enough from the cold dark sea by the heavy granite seawall. History was etched into each façade. I was like a wide-eyed kid, stumbling as I tried to take in the mega-yachts, rows of chandleries² and stylish restaurants.

Despite having changed from my blue jean cut-offs to some khaki shorts, and sporting a clean shirt, bright white short socks, and new Sperry boat shoes, I felt conspicuous and it seemed I was attracting looks of moderate disapproval. Maybe I was overly sensitive. Maybe it was just my tan and my long bushy hair dangling halfway down my back. There was no way to disguise my hippie roots, which fit in so well in Austin but seemed rebellious and completely out of place on this auspicious avenue.

Yachting, and racing yachts, is a big deal in Newport, and we knew that the type of sailors against whom we were to be racing were very different from our hometown fleet. One of the reasons we were there was that the national champion for a few years running was from the Houston fleet in Texas. We had raced against him often, beating him in at least a few races. We fancied ourselves having a reasonable shot at getting a trophy in this regatta. If he could beat them maybe we could too.

I was on fire with the excitement and nervous energy that precedes any regatta, yet this was bigger and badder and more out of our league than I had expected. And then there was the addition of the beautiful waitress Kristen. All of my switches were flipped to full ahead, and I’d only been there a few hours.

The next day being a Sunday, the yacht club was busy and we backed our boat under the lift. After hoisting it into the air, we began wet sanding the bottom with 400-grit sandpaper—in the rain—which made the locals think we were crazy, but at least they knew we were serious.

Indeed we were serious, but it turns out that we hadn’t taken one aspect of our new experience of ocean racing as seriously as we should have. On our lake we never carried a motor; we carried a paddle instead. We never carried flares or a radio or any of the other equipment that was listed in the regatta brochure as required equipment for participating in this national caliber, oceangoing event. Scrounging around, we gathered everything on the list just moments before our trip.

We found an old Seagull³ outboard in the back of a friend’s garage. The rules didn’t say it had to run. We borrowed a handheld radio; we bought some flares, and David brought his horn. David’s horn was a rather large circular bronze type, probably from a 1930 Model A Ford, with a big squeeze ball on it which, when given a sharp squeeze, went AuuuuGAH. We had laughed and thought it was cute when we put it in the bag with the flares and the radio. We were lake sailors who were about to learn a lesson about sailing in the ocean.

On the second day of the regatta, about a third of the way through the first race, something that never happened on the lake began to happen. Fog rolled in, which is a common thing in New England, not unusual in any way. But this was our first experience with fog, and when it became so thick that we could see only a few meters ahead of the boat and we heard the committee boat gun blasting the signal to abandon the race, we realized how little we knew about being in the ocean.

Like, for instance, which way was home.

We had a rough idea of the compass heading, so we headed in that direction, barely moving in the slight wind. That was when we were faced with another new experience; the sounds of the sea that happen in the fog. The first sounds we heard were the clanging bells of the buoys, which instantly made me realize that I had not paid enough attention to where the buoys were on our way out, and in fact I had no idea which buoys made what sound.

We sailed slowly in the general direction of land, all of us hoping desperately that the fog would lift. We were a little scared. It was my first tiny lesson about being a skipper on the ocean, as it quickly became obvious that we were in real danger. We couldn’t swim to shore here as we could from anywhere on our lake.

Then we heard another sound, a really big sound, terribly loud, scary, and close—a horn, a deep thundering long-sounding horn. We could tell it was coming from behind us, somewhere sort of over there, somewhere, and was probably mounted to something very, very big.

David scrambled to find the bag with the flares and the radio and our horn. With the horn held high above his head, he squeezed the ball frantically, and out came what suddenly seemed like the most ridiculous sound I’d ever heard. AaauuuuGAH AaaaauuuuGAH AaaaauuuuGAH! We had read in the racing instructions that three short honks meant you are a sailboat under way. Our horn only honked one way, a very silly way.

We again heard the frightening one long bellow of the loud horn, now closer behind us, which is the official signal for something extremely big with restricted maneuverability.

We AaaaauuuuGAHed again, hoping the silly noise would keep us from getting run over.

There she is off the port bow! we heard echoing from just behind us.

Turning to look, we could just see the white uniform of a sailor standing high on the bow of a giant ship a mere 20 meters away. It glided slowly by. We breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and I opened the tequila to toast not being run over.

We heard the sounds of our friends on the other racing boats honking their horns, proper air horns, creating three official-sounding short blasts, and followed them towards the harbour with our Aaauuuugahs. They guided us between the buoys with bells and flashing lights that I finally matched with what we could see on the chart.

Slowly the fog began to lift, and we could make out enough details to sail our way onto our mooring. After that frightening learning experience, I looked hard at the charts, memorizing compass headings that would get us home, and borrowed a proper horn. Racing in the open sea just outside a major international port was very different from going out for a lark on our little lake.⁴

We raced reasonably well, but didn’t achieve our goal of winning or at least placing in the top five. I believe we wound up 13th or so, but out of 50 boats that were all sailed at a very high caliber, we didn’t consider that too bad. Overall, the regatta was great fun and we met a lot of interesting characters. But it didn’t consume Tom and myself so much that we’d forgotten about the waitress at the Mudville Pub. We’d been over to the pub twice during the week-long regatta, hoping to be blessed with her effervescent presence.

David and Michelle flew home the day after the regatta ended, but Tom and I decided we didn’t actually want to go home yet and that, in our hearts, going home at all wasn’t very appealing. The waitress at the Mudville Pub was significantly more alluring, and the illustrious lives to which we’d been introduced dulled the paint on what was waiting for us in Austin.

So we struck a deal with the little lady at the mansion. If we repaired the back door and fixed the leaky laundry sink and screwed down that one squeaky stair, we could stay on for another week or two. We arranged to leave the boat on the borrowed mooring for a bit longer, hoping to entice our favorite waitress, or any other unsuspecting and interesting females, to come for a sail with the Texas boys.

We dropped in on the Mudville Pub routinely, but were frustrated never to find the object of our infatuations behind the bar. Where was she? Still, we didn’t want to go home, and we vowed to stay until the money ran out.

On the next Friday night we splashed out for the expensive cover charge to get into the most happening bar in town. After only a couple of pricey cocktails we realized how terribly out of place we felt. We were not crew on a mega-yacht, part of the in-crowd, and worse, we didn’t look flash enough to pick up any of these princess women. We felt like the Texas bumpkins that we actually were. That got us a little depressed. The next morning while playing a croquet game which we set up just on the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea at our estate, we decided it was time to go home. We also pledged to go by the Mudville Pub for one last try.

As fate would have it, she was there in all her splendor. She recognized us immediately and strode over to us with a smile and her usual bubbles. We dribbled all over her about how we had come by five or six times never to find her there and that we were forced to leave for Texas soon.

Of course, we still had time for one more sail if she was keen to go. Our hearts dropped as she said, I would love to, but I’m leaving this afternoon to go on vacation up to Lake Winnipesaukee and stay in a chalet for a week with a bunch of my girlfriends.

That’s terrible! I replied. Wait, sorry, it’s great that you’re going on vacation. But it’s terrible that we won’t get the chance to take you sailing.

She cooed and replied, That’s definitely a shame; I really wanted to give it a try. And walking away she left us to stare at our burgers and chips.

Tom and I were thinking exactly the same thing. The next year’s regatta was to be held on Lake Winnipesaukee, and we’d actually considered driving up there to see what it was like. Now we simply had to figure out how to invite ourselves to drop in on this vacation chalet full of women. The pub wasn’t very busy and she came back to our table to flirt with us, which raised our spirits, and when she began rambling about that day’s jaunt to the lake, our minds and hearts were working overtime to figure out how to join in.

She was even more gorgeous than we remembered and now was comfortably telling us about her roommates and friends. She liked us. Then she mentioned that her car was having some problems and she was a little concerned that it might not make it all the way there.

That was it. We immediately offered to take her there in our fine and fit van and told her we’d intended on heading that way to scope out the next year’s racing site. We added that we were harmless and fun, would stay out of the way, could probably fix her car when we got back, both of us could cook and repair squeaky doors at the chalet and we would pay for the gas. She laughed, looking from one of us to the other. I’ll think about it.

Walking away, she left us to choke on our burgers while we rambled madly to each other about how not to blow it when she came back. Luckily when she returned, we didn’t get a chance to say anything stupid as she confidently spoke right up, I called my girlfriends and they think it’s OK, but you might have to sleep in the garage.

Stammering that would be fine and completely surprised that she had agreed, I asked, Well then, when were you planning on leaving?

She replied with a hopeful look, If we could leave in about an hour then we might get there before dark, which would be nice as the sunsets are beautiful there. It’s actually nicknamed Sunset Lake and is a small lake right next to Lake Winnipesaukee.

That’s great, Tom blurted. We just need to go get some gear.

I looked at him like he was crazy. We had to finish the door at the mansion, get in touch with the guy whose mooring the boat was on to make sure we could leave it there for another week, then go out and put the cover on the boat, pay the bill at the yacht club, which would still need to be calculated and move the trailer back to the mansion. Those inescapably required tasks would be impossible to accomplish in one hour.

Inspired by our infatuation however, we were knocking at her door only 10 minutes late, where she met us with her three female roommates who secretly jotted down the license tag number from the van and blatantly asked us our full names. They thought Kristen was crazy for jumping in with two random men who could be axe murderers from Texas.

She had us figured out though, and as soon as we were rolling away she reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of frozen vodka. We three talked and laughed our way along the curvy two-lane highway, passing quaint New Hampshire farmhouses and bright red barns that gave way to deep green forests as we wound our way into the hills. The scenery was beautiful, as was the woman sitting between us.

Kristen had an energy that was full of excitement about life and the exact moment she was in. Her glass was more than half-full. She sat between us on a thin pillow covering the center console, acting free and comfortable in her own skin, bumping shoulders and slapping our knees, telling stories about her life and asking us what we did and where we’d been. We introduced her to Patsy Cline and she quickly was singing with us at the top of our lungs. We learned a lot about her in those few hours. We both wanted to know more.

Loons lived around the splendid little lake, and their haunting nighttime calls embraced me as I sat quietly in a canoe that was actually crafted from timber branches and clad in real bark just like the American Indians made generations ago. I spotted the canoe immediately after we arrived—I'd grown up canoeing the rivers of Texas with my Dad and had been in an Indian Guides troop—and as soon as the introductions to all of the gang were over I jumped in and paddled to the center of the lake. The dusk light was fading. The cold lake was glassy still, reflecting the dark woods that quietly shrouded the nearby hills that grew into mountains in the distance.

I tried to mimic the loons by whistling through the thumbs of my fists, their haunting calls echoing in the intense silence. I wanted to talk to them, to connect with the tranquility and peace of their existence. The crisp air burned as I breathed deeply and leaned back to watch the stars peek through the veil of the day’s last moments. Sitting alone in the midst of such beauty, I felt my lust for a change in my life. There was so much to see and do in this world…so many beautiful places such as this. How could I go back and just let the days go by, living what I already knew?

I paddled back to the grassy shore in front of the chalet, and through the expansive multi-paned windows that faced the stunning view which I had just been part of, I could see Kristen across from Tom at the table inside. She was laughing.

Damn. He was witty, and handsome. My nickname for him was Mighty Tom. He was 6 feet 3 inches of muscle. His ruffled blond hair wasn’t a businessman’s cut, but not a hippie style either, reflecting his casual yet responsible manner. His quick, flashing smile disarmed everybody he met. You could tell he was friendly and kind, despite his imposing stature, and he had the added talent of making everyone laugh every few minutes with good stories and a large repertoire of jokes.

I was the romantic with deep thoughts and meaningful touches. I picked flowers and pointed out the beauty in life. I was strong as well, with tightly muscled arms I showed off a lot. I was agile, fleet of foot, and loved to hop fences and leap over sidewalks. Just under six feet tall, my brown eyes were sensitive, deep and easy to read. I was the dreamy, long-haired poet.

Here we go again, I liked him and he liked me so she liked him and me, and we both liked her.

On the third day of that giggly flirtatious week Mighty Tom and I came to our odd arrangement. As such good friends, we were able to talk openly about our feelings for Kristen and confirmed we were both very intrigued and interested. Usually amongst friends there will be signals that it should go one way or another and the second fiddle will politely bow out. It was obvious she liked both of us, and we both liked her more and more each day, causing each of us to wish those obvious signals would appear. We knew we couldn’t both have her. It was beginning to feel messy with both of us flirting with her all of the time.

So the one day for me, one day for him plan was born. The rule wasn’t strictly abided by; we just let each other have some space. The three of us had a great time when we were together, enjoying walks in the woods and swimming in the lake, but I would disappear in the canoe leaving her with Tom, or he would go for a walk in the hills alone to give me some time. That way we could each get to know Kristen alone, and she each of us, and we could let the natural selection fall into place.

Tom was solid, honest, and straight up. He was a very good man. If she decided he was the right choice, I would be happy for her, and for Tom. I was solid, honest, and straight up. I was a good man. If she decided I was the right choice, I would be happy for her, and for me!

This book is about dreams, and the dreamiest we ever are is when we’re falling in love! It’s no surprise that such a book would start with a love story.

The little lake holiday ended with no definitive conclusion. We’d become a dynamic threesome, all sharing a common spirit and enjoying an easy natural camaraderie. We sadly left our vacation wonderland but had another laughing road trip crowded into the front seats of the van, slightly more sober but high on the vibrant energy between us. The goodbyes at her door were awkward and uncommitted. The surreal, intense energy that had consumed us for a week couldn’t possibly continue back in the workaday setting. But she left us knowing she wanted to see us more.

Now what? Go home? No way. Simply impossible. We had to keep flirting and stick to our one day each plan until something happened! We could fix a few more things at the mansion and do a bit more sailing and avoid Texas just a little bit longer. This had to play itself out. Was it really destiny?

One of Tom's turns starts the next story. We were both falling in love with her. He had all of this particular morning to be with her, I was to wait patiently for them to come back, and then it would be my turn. Tom and I were convinced that one of us would eventually make her swoon.

Yet there was more to our romantic yearnings. Along with our lovely Kristen was the dreamy lure of a more adventurous, exciting life—the life of all these sailors who were chasing unknown horizons and had salt in their eyes. Back in Texas we knew exactly what awaited us. As long as we were away, there was a chance something more amazing could happen. Clinging to the excitement of being away from home, like kids who wanted one more ride on the rollercoaster, one more chance at a thrilling adventure before our carnival closed, the days slipped by until the one: the day the dream was born…

¹ A small motorboat operated by the marina to take you to and from the moorings. You either honk your horn or call them on the radio when you need them.

² A store that sells heavily marked up items because they all belong on boats.

³ A famous, English made, one cylinder outboard known for their unreliability but incredible longevity.

⁴ For more stories about Ensign racing, see Racing Sailboats on the Harold Neel website in the extra stories section.

2It Was the Day

It was the day. It began with no unusual feeling or lightning strike. When I woke up, there wasn’t a single hint that this was the day that would set me on a course I’ve raggedly clung to for the past 26 years. It was the day the dream crystallized—my incredible dream that actually came true.

Pressure was building in the little trilogy of Tom and Kristen and myself. Things had been quite carefree and fun, lumbering along, with the two of us seeing Kristen and her roommates on a daily basis for over a week after returning from the lake trip. Tom would play the lead for one day, and then I would have a go the next. We ate lots of hamburgers at the Mudville Pub and dropped by her house every afternoon for card games and storytelling.

Today though, was to be a crucial day, because the plan was to take Kristen and her tiny, pretty roommate Michelle, sailing over to Bird Island where we would have a proper clambake, lobster boil, picnic style afternoon. Destined to be romantic, fun and tipsy, Tom and I both envisioned that things would fall where they may. We knew in our guts that this was the do-or-die day. We couldn’t go on any longer in wishy-washy wonderland.

Either I had to bail or Tom had to bail, or she had to make it plain which one of us she wanted. Both Tom and I were in danger of falling too much in love. We could sense it in each other. It was still OK at this point, each of us could take our lumps and walk away, but if we let ourselves get too much farther along it might have become painful.

It was arranged so Tom had the morning with her, and they were to go and meet her dad at the fisheries to pick up the littleneck clams, lobsters, potatoes and provisions of wine and beer, etc. In my mind I suspected they would be arm in arm when they returned. It seemed to me Tom had been in good form the past few days, and she was laughing at all of his jokes. This game was getting torturous.

I was to get the Ensign rigged for our adventure and then sail her to the dock from the mooring to meet them after their shopping; with a major bonus involved. I’d learned that on that particular morning a spectacular yachting event was to happen.

The wealth that’s involved in some of the classic yacht scenes is truly phenomenal. There is a lure about old wooden ships and the histories they represent that causes the romantics of the wealthy class to invest millions in restoring, preserving and showing off the beauties of old, especially the vessels from the opulent world of yacht racing. This was to be grandiosely showcased on this special morning.

A woman from one of the richest and most powerful families in the United States had bought an America’s Cup racing sloop that was built in the 1930s. The Endeavour was both famous and beautiful. Certainly not like one of today’s high-tech racing sleds built for the modern Cup, she was designed in the days when racing yachts were still required to have elegance as well as sleek racing lines.

Endeavor had a marble fireplace below and carefully carved hardwood balustrades for the grand stairway that led to the saloon. She had been restored immaculately. Her new owner enjoyed a few cruises but realized something was missing. Endeavor was built for the most prestigious yacht race in the world. She needed to be raced. The Newport museum owned a sister ship of sorts, Shamrock.

The story on the docks was that the museum’s limited budget had left Shamrock in a bit of a sorry state, and so the wealthy yachtswoman, having decided the missing ingredient was another yacht for Endeavour to play with on the race course, donated $1.5 million or so to the museum so they could get Shamrock refitted and the two old racehorses could duel it out again.

Shamrock’s refit was finally completed, and this very morning was to be remembered in yachting history, and mine. The two old girls were to come together for the first time in 50 years in Newport harbour, and hundreds of spectator boats were expected out for the event. I was to be one of those. Tom and Kristen dropped me to the wharf early that fateful day on their way to the seafood shop.

I planned to single hand into the harbour with my little race boat, considered a bit of a classic herself being 30 years old, and meet what are probably the two most famous classic racing boats in the world that are still alive. I considered that a helpful bonus for delivering the boat to the dock while Tom gave his best shot with the woman I was hopelessly falling in love with.

All of the training for the Nationals had me well in tune with my boat, so I had no trouble raising the sails and tacking my way out through the moored yachts. I beat⁵ my way up the harbour to where there was a huge collection of three–story motor yachts, varnished trawlers and monster sailboats all milling around under power.

I seemed the only one under sail, and navigating through the unpredictable movements of all of these incredibly expensive yachts was quite the challenge. I couldn’t see through the jib⁶, and there was enough wind where I needed to stay hiked out on the windward rail. That meant that, every time I went down to the low side of the boat to peek behind the jib to see the traffic, she would heel over and try to round up on me unless I flogged the main, which is not a pretty look, especially in the midst of that spectator fleet.

I realized a collision with one of these yachts would probably destroy my finances for life, so I tacked out to the edge of the fleet, and giving them a wide berth I beat to windward of them all, which put me into the open ocean just outside the harbour. The wind eased a bit and was perfect for me to tie off the helm and let her steer herself. Her racing sails were crisply trimmed, and she was dancing, leaping over the waves.

There I was, by myself, in the Atlantic Ocean with the spray salting the edges of my eyes and my little ship far away from the other boats, and for that matter, land. The lake back home was only a few miles across, and it was a first for me to have so much privacy and feel so alone on the water. It was my virgin taste of the vastness of the ocean. That wave that just hit the bow had come all the way from the west coast of Europe!

It was glorious. I was one with my boat. I wished I didn’t have to go back for our little harbour cruise. I wanted to head up the coast to another town, another harbour. I wanted to go somewhere. I thought maybe next week I should just try to sail the Ensign down to Florida where there’s another Ensign racing fleet. There must be places to stop along the way.

David would understand if I just took the boat and bolted. I could put the boom tent up when it rained and just eat canned soup cold or maybe even have a little grill, maybe get a battery and an electric bilge pump. I could work as a carpenter in the ports and learn to work on boats. Maybe I could teach sailing and get to sail every day. The inception of a dreamer’s dream is often spawned in a random moment, and this was mine.

I was still beating upwind and loosened her jib halyard for a slightly better shape in the sail⁷ and then hiked hard to get her flat. Leaning back with my hands on her hull, I could see under the boom back towards the harbour. Damn! A light fog had settled in that was just enough to have made the land and the spectator fleet disappear. In fact I could see nothing but ocean in every direction. The fog wasn’t very thick, but this wasn’t like when it happened in the races. Then we were not as far out as I was now, it was we, not just me, and there was a race committee with chase boats, who knew we were out there. I experienced a rush of exhilaration that was almost fear, but I wasn’t really afraid.

I knew that I had beat upwind all the way out there, so all I had to do was put her on a dead run downwind and I would get back. I eased the sheets and rigged the line I used to steer her when I sailed downwind and tied it to the tiller. My Ensign seemed small as I bailed out the few gallons of sea she had taken on from bashing into a couple of big waves. I carefully rigged the spinnaker, then set the pole and quickly pulled up the striking blue and red sail, cleating off the sheets. It filled perfectly, and she picked up speed.

Climbing onto the foredeck to drop the jib, I was glad the wind had eased a bit. It was the perfect amount of pressure, and she was surging down the waves, holding her course nicely. I would have been happy with this speed in a race. Not wanting to go too far off to either side and hit a buoy or something, I figured I would run dead downwind and jibe⁸ a lot, keeping her going down the middle, which should take me back to where I’d come from.

I still couldn’t see land or the fleet, but the visibility wasn’t that bad and there was no need for a horn. I did a jibe and came down from the foredeck with a grin. This was great. Alone out in the ocean! There’s only one thing to do now! I said out loud.

I grabbed the ever-present bottle of tequila and raised it at arm’s length. I didn’t state a toast. I simply waved the bottle all around me. I waved it at the moment, at the feeling, at me. I waved at the ocean and the boat and the wind. I grinned again and took a big swig followed by, Aaarrrrrgh, that was nice. My pirate accent had no idea how much it would come into play over the next two decades.

I stared hard, but still couldn’t see the fleet, which was slightly worrying. It’d been a while now, but no matter. I knew eventually I’d see something, and it was time for a jibe. I adjusted the helm a bit and went to the foredeck, climbing up on the high side and leaning hard against the shrouds⁹ to roll her and get her to start her turn. I planted my shoulder against the mast and unclipped the pole¹⁰, taking it towards the opposite spinnaker sheet. As I moved to clip it to the line, I pushed the boom with my knee, and the mainsail snapped across nicely while I shoved the pole out, unclipping from the other spinnaker sheet and then clipping it to the mast.

A perfect jibe! The chute hadn’t even had a flutter. A fortunate wave had lifted her and helped turn her perfectly onto the proper new course so the powerful sail was in ideal trim with its leading edge just slightly soft. I turned to look back and jump into the cockpit, but suddenly couldn’t breathe.

I stood on the foredeck, my mouth agape, looking back at what was one of the most astonishing visuals I will ever see. There, mere meters to either side and just behind my stern were two spinnakers of unbelievable proportions. They were 10 stories high and hurling towards me at 12 knots.

Tied to the longest, sleekest bows in the world, they pulled Endeavour just to windward of me and Shamrock just to lee. They overtook me quickly, one on either side as I stood in shock, overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of these two magnificent racing boats. I couldn’t believe how close they came to me and how big and fast they were. How could I have let them sneak up on me?

I looked from one to the other as they thundered by and noticed the huge crews of each one, all looking at me. They were laughing and clapping, giving me the thumbs up. They knew I hadn’t seen them coming up from behind. I heard Good jibe! waft from Endeavour’s afterguard, and then they were gone. I was so stunned I had not even mustered a wave back at the smiling crews. I watched them sail away in glorious rhythm with the sea. It seemed effortless the way those beautiful vessels with gorgeous lines and monstrous rigs flew towards the shoreline.

I trembled with emotion, scared, awed and bewildered; my mind whirled. I wanted, I dreamed, I pictured, and I imagined. What’s it like to helm one of those in a race? What must it be like out in the ocean, going that fast with so much power? What must the cabins, the crew, the women, the life aboard such a boat be like?

I had another healthy swig of tequila and was awash with visions and more imaginations and dreams. My gut crawled with longings, and I stood on the foredeck, picturing myself sailing into 100 ports from out to sea, just like I was then, but knowing the ways of the sea and being like one of those men I’d been meeting on the wharf.

They had a look in their eye, like they knew something the rest of us don’t, those salty captains and seamen. How would it feel to have sailed the oceans and seen the ports of the world? I would never know if I spent my life in Texas.

The safety of the harbour was a lot farther away than I thought, and it took me over an hour to get back. The hectic spectator fleet had mostly dispersed. I saw Shamrock tied to the dock but didn’t see Endeavour as I sailed through the harbour and pulled alongside the yacht club seawall. After tying her off, I jumped back aboard and dropped the mainsail, lashing it onto the boom. I couldn’t sit down and found myself pacing up and down the two-meter long cockpit sole, talking to myself out loud.

I could crew on one of those. They saw me and thought I did a good jibe. I should go over to Shamrock and see if they need any crew. I would have to buy new shoes and a decent shirt. Wait, I could wear my regatta shirt! It was a flash polo from the Newport yacht club.

On and on I went, I could start as a deckhand and work my way up to captain!

My pace back and forth finally slowed, and I realized that if anyone had been watching me – stomping back and forth, waving my arms, and all but shouting at myself – and surely there’d been someone, they’d have thought me mad.

I sat on the bench that ran down the starboard side of the cockpit and leaned back against the transom trying to calm myself. It suddenly dawned on me that Tom and Kristen and her roommate Michelle should’ve been there. I’d gotten back late and had been waiting for a while. With a flood of new feelings, my thoughts shifted back to the notions of love.

I began speculating that they were so late because Tom had pulled it off, and they were busy with some heavy making out parked in the van somewhere and my chances were ruined. I resigned myself to the possibility and lied to myself. That’s OK. I knew what I really wanted though, and I knew I wanted it more than I should.

I stood up and paced again, but this time along the seawall and not talking out loud. My emotions raced as my mind flitted from my burgeoning love for Kristen, to the impossible dreams of crewing in the ocean, to the dreary thought of returning to the same old life back in Texas. It was as though I’d been infected with an escape from my old life, one that suddenly seemed ridiculously boring and mundane.

I still paced, without even being aware of it. I was lost and gone in visions. If Tom hasn’t nabbed her and she falls for me, then I could move in with Kristen in Newport and let Tom drive the boat back. No, that’s not fair. It’s too far to drive alone with the trailer, so I could help Tom get the boat to Texas and then I could turn around and drive back up. Damn, I don’t have enough gas money. I will have to do a remodel job first, but that will take too long. Damn.

I was oblivious when they pulled up in the van, tumbling out with the ice chest full of lobster and bags of groceries and a sack of clams. Shaking my head to clear all of randomness, I caught Tom’s eyes and