• To each his own
    January 27, 2020

    To each his own

    This summer a commercial airline pilot friend of mine, Travis, spent a lot of time researching sailboats. He did so because: 1) He’s interested in upgrading his current platform, a MacGregor 24 trailer sailer he inherited from his father-in-law; and 2) he’s vaguely interested in living aboard a boat onceRead More

  • A good Samaritan tosses the stranded sailor a towline. But would it be enough?
    January 27, 2020


    The schooner was pinned against 40-foot cliffs, pounded by seas that threw spray over their tops. A former owner of a towing and salvage firm, I thought I could haul her off with my 46-foot sedan cruiser.

  • Photo courtesy Greg CoppaThe late Gordon Crossman aboard his home-built sailboat, into which he incorporated many found items.
    January 27, 2020

    Where there’s a will . . .

    Wickford, Rhode Island, has always had more interesting characters than I can shake a stick at. Plenty of interesting stories abound there, as well. Not too long ago there was a distinguished older gentleman who was very active in community affairs, politics, and the yacht club where I learned toRead More

  • Newly minted girlfriend/sailor Diana diligently checks, while driving, mainsail trim aboard Student Driver, the author's J/24. Photo by Mark Barrett
    January 27, 2020

    Cruising with Diana, Part II

    On their first short cruises as a couple (see “Cruising with Diana, Part 1,” December 2019), it was two boat-lengths forward/one back for Mark and Diana as they set courses – often divergent – to perceived common grounds on which they might sail constructively, as a team, on a minimal overnight boat. However, compromises were made on both sides, and soon they were anxious for an extended adventure.

  • The 81-foot schooner Argia, at Steamboat Wharf near the drawbridge in Mystic, awaits her next charter. Photo by Mike Camarata
    January 27, 2020

    A Mystic state of mind

    Mystic, Conn., is not a town, and the Mystic River, on which it lies, is not a river. So perhaps this rollicking, tarred-marline-scented village is a figment of our imaginations, which is OK by me.

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