The Next Boat

By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
Contributing Writer

When he was 11 years old, his dad bought him his first real boat, an

11-foot catboat. It was very old, in bad shape, but it sailed.

And you might say it was the first Next Boat. Before that, you see, the

boy "sailed" pieces of sheet metal he liberated from construction sites

around St. Petersburg, Fla., his childhood home in the war years.

His truly first boat was a rowboat some fine scallywag hauled up out of

the mud and sold him for a dollar. That would have been about 1940, when

for a little boy, a dollar was a small fortune. The rowboat was so

waterlogged, it never floated.

So the old catboat looked mighty good to a youngster. But as anyone knows

who has truly been owned by boats, never far from his mind was the Next

Boat. The Next Boat would be a little bigger. It would have real sails

and rigging, maybe an actual anchor.

And it did. And of course in no time, all he could think about was the

Next Boat. So it went, Next Boat after Next Boat -- 12 or 15, he

estimates today, squinting and counting them off, whispering their names

on his fingers.

One or two were rowboats, but most were sailboats. A few he built

himself, one a 16-foot fiberglass day-sailer, assisted by his second

daughter Alice, and then a larger wooden sailboat. He also built a kayak,

a sort of sailing surf-board hybrid called a "sea-flea," and a

strip-planked sailing dinghy that he finished like fine furniture.

None had an engine until the last two that he bought, each named Alice

for his faithful mate. After the first of those, it was "The Next Boat I

buy will have a diesel in-board...."

And that Next Boat seemed indeed to be the pinnacle of the dream: a

24-foot Helms sloop intended for Serious Sailing. That was the one he

took down the Chattahoochee to keep for a year in Pensacola, then Panama

City, then Apalachicola.

Somehow, Serious Sailing -- meaning blue water cruising, out of sight of

land -- never happened, and the Alice was relocated to the Lake Walter F.

George, finally berthing at Bagby State Park Marina just above the dam.

In time, even the three-hour ride to the marina seemed arduous. The

weather could be perfect in Fayette County but too hot or windless at the

lake. Hurricanes happened while he was out of town, and he agonized over the safety of his boat, felt owned by it.

By now in his late 60s, he was also beginning to wonder why he had

thought pulling up sails and wrestling with whipping sails was so much

fun. Dehydration in an open cockpit in broiling sun had somehow lost its

charm, and the lake was mighty confining.

Then came motor-cruises with friends on the Chesapeake Bay and the

Intracoastal Waterway, and two canal cruises in France and Wales. A whole

new idea was taking shape.

On rented canal barges -- a 30-foot small work-boat replica in the

Bourgoigne Canal and the Sohne River, and a 56-foot narrowboat in the

Llangollen Canal -- he discovered the pleasures of seeing the countryside

by water.

The advantages are many: a leisurely pace off the tourist path, combining

both transportation and accommodations; never having to wonder where he'd

spend the night; close encounters with swans and thirsty cows and egrets;

an intimate look at farms and villages, where fresh bread, fish, cheese,

wine, and salad greens were always available.

Obviously not all the charms of Europe translate to American rivers and

canals. Here the land next to the water is privately owned; there boaters

and strollers have unlimited access to the public towpath that parallels

every navigable waterway. Here rivers are often foul; in Great Britain

strict laws keep most waterways reasonably clean, although less so in

France.

So it was that his thoughts turned again to the Next Boat.

The Next Boat would be a trawler-type boat -- think "Little Toot" or

Nordic tugs. It would be large enough to live aboard for long stretches

of time, yet small enough to haul by trailer to an interesting waterway

-- think the Chesapeake Bay with historic rivers like the Potomac, the

James, and Choptank. It would have a quiet and efficient engine -- think

steering from inside out of the rain and sun.

The search began, by car and Internet. At the same time, Sailing Vessel

Alice was put on the market. Talk about mixing emotions: anticipation of

the Next Boat its sale would make possible, the sorrow of losing a

beloved companion of 14 years.

She sold. The day was torrid when he motored upriver 20-odd miles to a

marina in Eufaula where she could be hauled for the new owner. A

dead-south wind and a bent prop blade kept her speed down to less than

three knots -- a six-hour ordeal in full South Georgia sun. He grieved, he cursed, he felt relief.

And for the first time in 58 years, he did not own a boat.

More later....

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