Why I’m selling my boat

October 2007

By Tom Snyder

It’s official. I’m going to sell my boat. And there are a lot of things that had no effect on this choice. It has nothing to do with the huge cost of maintaining a boat. Nor does it involve the fact that I am spending more time alone aboard every year.

I love my boat increasingly every year. All the little systems I’ve set up for cruising without using the engine are working like a charm. I’m getting used to being more than a little scared in bad weather – it’s good for me. I have somehow stopped beating myself up for being lucky enough to afford my boat – I work hard. My wife is suggesting a long cruise together in the future – how great is that!?

But then, this month, I read a staggering letter to the editor in this very magazine (September 2007). A woman cruising in Maine with her family reported that they found a snake crawling around on their boat one day. It was in the cockpit. She asked her husband to direct it to . . . nevermind. I read no further because that was all I needed to know. Without reading the entire letter, I can easily use my imagination to figure out exactly what happened next. Obviously they tried to get this viper to exit the boat using boat hooks, sail bags, fire extinguishers and a lot of yelling. The snake coiled itself offensively and lashed out repeatedly at the family, until tired of this game, it slithered, not over the side whence it came, but down the companionway. A thorough and terrifying search of the cabin by the dad revealed nothing. In fact, the serpent had crawled into an overhead compartment from which it could survey the family once they entered the cabin to get out of the cold, driving rain and darkness.

The family ate dinner down below in silence. Mom assured everyone that the black-fanged predator had probably found its way off the boat through a hawse-hole. Everyone decided to accept this version of the unfolding story. After dinner, they enjoyed a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit, and all were soon even able to laugh at their earlier overreactions. Dad did a funny imitation of himself trying to guide the poor scared snake into a spinnaker bag. Then the kids took turns doing impersonations of a flickering-tongued snake.

Mom offered to make cocoa for everyone before bed, so, as Dad taught the kids how to tie a bowline with their eyes closed, she heated some milk in the galley. Reaching her hand up into the teak cabinet to get mugs, she could not see the snake recoil sharply to avoid her hand. She easily found three mugs, but had to reach farther into the recesses of the cabinet for the fourth. She could not hear the angry hiss because Dad and the kids were laughing so hard at little Timmy’s hilarious attempt to tie a bowline around his own sneaker.

After everyone enjoyed their cocoa, plus the surprise treat of marshmallow, the kids climbed into their bunks in the aft cabin. Dad turned on the FM radio to take notes on the next day’s weather. The forecast only promised more and colder northeast winds. They would be stuck in their little cove for a few days.

In disgust, Dad turned off the radio just seconds before a special news report would have informed them that the local police reported that a truck carrying a load of bananas from West Africa had been involved in a rollover accident upon entering Portland. A member of the cleanup crew had been bitten by a reptile that had apparently been living among the bananas. The reptile was destroyed by the police, but no further information was available.

Mom and Dad changed into their pajamas, a luxury they looked forward to on cold nights like this. Mom had to steady herself as the boat rocked unexpectedly on the building swell, which also caused the door to the aft cabin to swing and latch itself in the open position. Finally in their bunk, Mom sighed deeply, snapped off the overhead light, and reached down to the cabin sole to find an extra pillow. She could not find a pillow, but too sleepy to care, she left her hand on the floor as she drifted off to sleep. Dad leaned over to kiss her, but found her already dead to the world.

So that is what I’ve been able to piece together from the first few lines of that letter to the editor. And consequently I’ve decided to sell my boat. There is no possible way I could, in good conscience, subject my crew to that kind of danger. Plus, like every normal man, I am terrified of snakes. I cannot, for example, close my hand in the “Illustrated Encyclopedia” article on pit vipers. This is very normal. I will miss sailing, of course, but I feel like I have dodged a bullet. What if I had skipped right over the page with that letter. Life is like that, a game of inches.

Tom Snyder sails out of Peaks Island, Maine.