What I remember from my vacation

August 2007

By Tom Snyder

If you give a present in a very big box to a very young kid – often a boy – you have a fifty-fifty shot that the box will become the main attraction. A magic box. The heck with the cool, multi-colored, perfectly textured toy within. According to Piaget, this happens because boxes are incredibly fun, and Piaget had his own laboratory in Switzerland, which he rarely left, which was in the shape of a box. His lab, not Switzerland.

My point is probably obvious: I just got back from my month of June cruising in Maine, a present my wife has given me for a decade. And do I savor the exhilarating, all-day close reaches between indescribably majestic islands, or the breathtaking broad reaches on frothy sunlit following seas, or the sunsets that make every boat aspire to be mahogany? Not really.

Sure, I mention these things to friends just to assure them that there is, in fact, a heart beating within. But again, not really. I am like the kid focused on the unintended splendor of the box that delivered the gift. This is where the box metaphor falls to the ground. Suffice to say, some guys appreciate the wrong things. This may even demark the line between great guys and great men.

What will I remember from the cruise of ’07? Only the box it came in. I couldn’t get the screw to budge on a zinc that needed replacing. I rowed over to a just-anchored boater who said, “What you need is a big-assed screwdriver,” and he produced a screwdriver with a stunningly large ass. Not literally, but it taught that zinc screw a lesson it will never forget. Not literally. Then the guy extended an invitation for drinks aboard. And hot dogs. And I drank all of his wine. Literally. The cruise of ’07.

At one point it rained and blew for three days, so I stayed put and read the book “Longitude” for 36 straight hours. Hiding, luxuriating in my tree fort on the cruise of ’07.

I developed boatochondria and then cured myself of it in a very nice cove. I had been bragging all winter to anyone who would listen about a newly installed diesel hot-water heater that would supply hot water without needing to run the engine. Like an on-demand apartment water heater, it does its job using just thimblefuls of fuel. On Day 2, it made funny noises as it ran, and then it worked only inconsistently. This was not a crisis, but the dysfunction became the center of my world.

In “Grapes of Wrath,” Steinbeck’s young protagonist develops a stomachache from repeatedly hearing the hint of malfunction in a family car that must deliver them safely West. Those stakes were high, but aboard, my hot-water needs were trivial. Pathetically, my concern for the heating device took on the obsessed self-examination of the urban-dwelling, chronic sufferer of self-diagnosed advanced something or other. I couldn’t sleep well. I woke up thinking, “I am on my cruise! But wait . . . my diesel water heater is failing!”

I developed grapes-of-wrath stomach with every questionable pumping sound. And then, rejoice, during a phone call with my son, he reminded me that we’d previously agreed that we humans do have control over some of our cognitive excesses. So after two hours in the cockpit with chin in hand, I left all hot-water concerns behind. Cured. Happier than before! The Cruise of ’07.

I settled finally on the perfect song for the moments following anchoring and putting the boat to bed. I have tried several songs over the years, but on one still evening in a still stiller harbor, I ended the debate. The song is “Fragile” by Sting. It is achingly beautiful and thoughtful. It must have been written at dusk. It reminds us of how fragile our happiness on any planet must be. But there are Brazilian strains of acoustic guitar that tell you that it’s safe to feel lucky. The anchor is down; you’re in the box. These are the accounts I most care about sharing from The cruise of ’07.

Oh, and also, I got an extra fly swatter for crossing Massachusetts Bay. That was fun. And the sun and water were nice, too.

Tom Snyder sails Blue Moon out of Peaks Island, Maine.