June, 2001
By Tom Snyder
April 20, 2001 Sandy Harbor, Pensafulan Islands, on the straits of Curmel.
This, sadly, will be my final letter from one of the most hauntingly beautiful and beguiling harbors I have ever known. Tomorrow morning Blue Moon (Sasquatech 37, hull #40) and I will set sail, leaving behind a group of island friends who have come to think of me as “perhaps the finest human being and wanderer that ever blessed their shore.” Wow!
Timing is everything, and it’s not on my side. It is a cruel irony to be departing before the blooming of the scarlet lowstiffe, and, worse yet, to miss the annual run of female turkey vultures down the twisted streets of the quaint commercial waterfront. But leave I must. A tough day for me, for the islanders, and mostly, perhaps, for you.
Now, with my charts unfolded, my complimentary goatskin jerry cans loaded with diesel, I take a final moment with you, my readers, to review the lessons learned during my nine months here in what I like to call Lindalweih Gulf’s best-kept secret. When it is your turn to winter here, these thoughts might serve you well.
Charts
Speaking of charts, remember my caution from letter #5. Do not bother buying chart 11044, “Approaches to Sandy Harbor and Pensafulan Roads.” Not only are all of the names spelled in childish phonetics, but this chart also has a coffee stain right where I imagine the compass rose used to be. You are better off simply using Chart 11279.
Pump-out stations
You’ve got to love a place that doesn’t slavishly adhere to every environmental fad that comes down the pike. Sandy Harbor is the only harbor I know that actually encourages boats to vent their holding tanks directly into the local water. When I first asked about a pump-out, they laughed and laughed, saying in their torturous guttural language, “What do you think this is, Connecticut or something?” You should hear their word for Connecticut. Hilarious! Anyway, dammit if the water doesn’t look just fine! Not a problem. In fact, just yesterday I swam in the lovely Oreel Flestar Cove (roughly translated, Ear Infection Cove) and the honest truth is that the water tasted different, but not all that bad!
Pests
Many sailors back in the States say they avoid Sandy Harbor because of the tenacious little Pensafulan screech fly. What a shame to miss out on paradise because of one little creature that happens to belong in the Skin Boring family. Consider a few objective facts – the first bite of the Screech fly is much less painful than, say, getting your finger fouled in a runaway winch, and then all succeeding bites are virtually painless because of the deadened feeling that mercifully spreads to surrounding tissue. Despite the rampant, girlish “pest alarmism,” I’m here to tell you that last year the Island Health Center successfully treated the vast majority of screech bite victims.
Unexpected good fortune
Also wintering in Sandy Harbor were two other Sasquatech boats: a Sasquatech 36 and the classic Sasquatech 38 (that’s the one where the port holes have plastic liners.) But wait — there’s more! This little island boasts its own Sasquatech dealership. Many an hour, the owner and I would sit by his point-of-purchase display of floating key chains and talk about the best boat ever made. Seriously though, it really is. We two had so much in common. For example, we both think the Cantaliev 40 is the worst boat ever. It really sucks, and it is in no way anywhere near as nice as the Sasquatech series. Seriously. We were amazed that we both sometimes feel sorry for anyone who owns a Cantaliev. But, look, they are people too, and the ocean is too big a place to carry around production boat hatred. Ours was not hatred. The Cantaliev is just a poorly designed boat, compared to a Sasquatech. Seriously.
One Great Restaurant: Louf’s
One and only one restaurant – and you wouldn’t have it any other way. What this precious eatery lacks in variety, they more than make up for in plenty of other things. Don’t complain when you find out that there’s only one thing, and the same thing every night, on the “menu.” Wait ’til you try Louf’s one-and-only (literally) entrée and beverage combo. You’ll be drinking what the locals call the Shemsheuit (the Short-Term Memory Bloater) This festive infusion calls for equal parts water, cranberry juice and Novocain. It has the most curious effect on one’s extremities. Louf tells me that the tingling sensation tells you the drink is working. The dinner proper is a steaming plate of just the finest, fattiest sections of wild boar. Called Kevinmeany (Lard Tips Valve Closer,) this is one dish that promises you will never leave the table wanting.
Advice on finding and approaching the enchanting brothel
From a distance, you will easily spot their beacon, flashing red, every 4 seconds. As you approach the entrance, you must give a wide berth to the first nun you see. This is smart because the nun indicates a prominent bar which extends dangerously across the entrance. This is probably wise to avoid because, of course, that’s how they get you.
OK. Time to come clean
And I hope you all take this in the proper spirit. Over the winter I became totally insane. The fact is, and I feel maybe a little funny about this, I am not now nor have I ever been abroad. Perhaps out of self-doubt or just wishing I were a different kind of person, I have been taking advantage of email to simulate a distant voyage. All of my messages sent during the last nine months were sent from here, my home in Boston. And though I am not entirely proud of this need to dress up my image, I will never, ever be ashamed of the wonderful friendships I have had with the good people of the Pensafulan Islands, on the strait of Curmel. You couldn’t ask for a kinder more inquisitive people. Curious perhaps to a fault. But not all that bad. Just a bit much sometimes.
To those who find fault with my invented postings, consider this. At least I didn’t partially saw through the snatchblock pin on someone’s boom vang. At least I didn’t kill someone. At least I watch the History Channel. At least I know I’m totally nuts – that should count for something. Please don’t write angry letters to this magazine. It will only encourage me.
Tom Snyder lives in Cambridge, Mass., with his wife Anne and children. He sails his Island Packet 350, Blue Moon, out of Peaks Island, Maine.
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