Nothing the matter with a little natter

August 2006

By Tom Snyder

I cruise for a month each June to get away from all the voices that fill one’s life. And the worst offender is my own voice. I talk too much. I have taught my wife a hand signal to use in public when it’s time for me to shut up. By May I am thoroughly bored by the collected observations of my previous year.

For the first few days of my annual cruise on Blue Moon, heading alone from loquacious Massachusetts to laconic Maine, I provide color commentary on my every move. Aloud. Such as, “I’m gonna go to the head now. I should be quick about it because. . .” After a few days of this, I give myself the special hand signal, and things quiet down. Headed for a state where guys are born contemplative and reserved, I will move silently and proudly among them.

At the Isles of Shoals, I crossed paths with a sailboat of good friends from home. They encountered in me a veritable Sphinx. Sitting in their cockpit, I listened to a consultant, a lawyer, an architect, and a CEO and their effusive Massachusetts ways. . . until about the third hour when the floodgates opened. I hosted a Pinot Grigio-fueled yackfest that left me deeply contrite the next morning. Just miles from the Maine coast, I vowed to keep a lid on it.

Under sail again, I got a VHF call from the CEO saying that his electronics were misbehaving. Without thinking, I launched into an orgy of speculation, replete with technical footnotes and historical sidebars. The two of us were doing the sport we know best: extreme talking. Until a third voice broke in. With the dialect of Maine and its terse economy of words, the voice said, “Get a room.”

My mortified CEO friend disappeared from the air with the speed of a man who had been wrongly outed. Not a word could I raise from my CEO. I, too, felt mortified at having been outed, not for any intimate preference but as a member of the chatty class. This could not stand. I made a quick crank call to the mystery voice on channel 68 to say that I had looked into getting a room and there were none available locally. Then I swore off my mouthy ways.

For three inspiring weeks I sailed strong and silent. You would be proud. One afternoon off Roque Island, a toggled lobsterpot wrapped on my propeller and broke a blade. I got towed into Jonesport to get the boat hauled so I could put on my spare prop. My boat has a hull speed of about 7.8 knots which makes the 9 knots at which a lobster boat towed me technically unfeasible and well worth gabbing about. Needless to say, during all of this, the lobsterman said nothing. But neither did I! Honestly!

With the boat on jack stands, the wonderful owner of the shipyard and I looked silently at the oddly bent propeller. It was great – standing there ruminating. Two guys ruminating, suitable for framing. The moments passed. He stood firm. Suddenly, disastrously, I felt an intriguing propeller thought surfacing. And what an irresistible thought; one that would allow for extended commentary on torque, hydrodynamics, and even a quick look at human nature. With my mouth clamped shut, the pressure increased. I thought I had won when he spoke first. But he said, “Wonder what happened…”

The dam broke. I spoke without notes for 15 uninterrupted minutes featuring interlocking digressions and seamless transitions across many disciplines. The resulting shame was nothing compared to the soaring sensation of a well-delivered syllabus. My audience of one may well have been impressed. Who knows?

Sailing out of Jonesport a day later I had come full circle. Embrace the wordiness. I would not try to compete in the arena of meditative stillness where I was clearly over my head. How nice to know one’s limits. On the VHF I heard a lobsterman spontaneously celebrate the sunrise to one and all, hoarsely singing, “Oh what a beautiful morning. . . “ Another came back with less skill but more vigor singing, “Oh what a beautiful day…”

I was dumfounded. Unprovoked lyrical speech! I took what felt like an enormous risk and sang into the microphone, “I’ve got a beautiful feeling…” There was such a long pause. When would I learn? But then another new voice showed up, cleared itself tentatively, and with all of the tuneful cadences from Down East concluded, “Everything’s going my way.”

When not yakking, Tom Snyder sails Blue Moon out of Peaks Island, Maine.