Shopping

We headed to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, in early December 2007. It is one of the two big boat-buying locations in eastern North America, the other being Annapolis—more of a summer centre.

Fort Lauderdale is made up of dozens upon dozens of channels, both sides of which are lined by boats of every size and description, many for sale. We went with a list of eight or nine sailing catamarans to look at, giving us a view of many different makes, all within the 36- to 42-foot range. Our intention was really just to inform ourselves and determine what we liked. From our readings, we had found people could take months or even years to find the boat they wanted. We fully expected to have to make several shopping trips.

Over two days, we saw all the boats on the list, and ranged as far south as Miami in our search. Amazingly, we found The One. La Dolce Vita was a 37-foot Flica sailing catamaran, built in England in 1989. Her current owner was a Dane, rejoicing in the name of Bjarne, and captain on one of those massive cruise liners, slightly larger than most of the islands they visit. He had maintained his cat in impeccable condition.

Upon our return, Willie made an offer. A few days later, negotiations completed, the next phase was under way. We needed to have the boat inspected by a marine surveyor and to take her out on a sea trial, to make sure she sailed nicely and all her gear was up to snuff. If she failed either of those, the deal would be off.

We were back in Fort Lauderdale at the beginning of January 2008.

Negotiations

Upon our return to Canada, Willie set about an orgy of information gathering. Stacks of printouts about a variety of boats burdened his desk and his kitchen table. He would show them to me and I would nod sagely and say, “Yes, dear.”

He gave me a radio operator’s training manual and the Canadian boating guide. I dutiful set about learning such fundamental rules as “red, right, return” (which refers to which side a buoy is to be on when one is sailing a marked channel). If my mind wandered, it was usually to try to come up with something thrilling like “green, gauche, go”.

We had serious talks about serious things. Was I sure I could really do this? I had a hard time imagining the feeling of being on a small floating object surrounded by nothing but mile after mile of salt water. I confessed to being fearful. He said that was normal and handed me one of the sailing bibles, Beth Leonard’s The Voyagers Handbook: the essential guide to blue water cruising. She deals handily with the topic of female terror—one of the key reasons more men aren’t afloat. I became more comfortable with the notion as I read her reassuring words.

We thought a sailing course might be a good idea. A week on a boat off the Bahamas or Belize sounded nice, but was prohibitively expensive. We talked about renting a boat and spending a week or two cruising in the Bahamas while I got a handle on the sea life. That, too, was going to be a great deal of money.

Finally, we decided simply to buy a boat and, bless him, Willie said, “If you really can’t do it, we’ll just sell her again.”

We were looking for a catamaran. The two hulls give a great deal more space and stability than single hulls or monohulls. Monohulls heel (lean) in the wind; catamarans stay flat, an assertion I was later to test in a quiet way. He gave me more books, some of them rather alarming. I read Ottawa resident Diane Steumer’s Voyage of the Northern Magic (a recommendation of my dentist’s), which tells of her four years at sea with her husband and three young sons. At the end of all this reading, I reckoned if those people could survive that, I could manage.

We talked about sailing to Bermuda, the Azores, the Med, the Canaries. I talked about the Galapagos; Willie said no. Eventually, we pulled our globe-trotting thoughts into the realm of reality and decided to noodle around the Caribbean to begin with, keeping to calmer waters and warmer climes before taking on the challenge of the Atlantic. I needed to tuck a few skills under my belt before I took on real weather.

Because of family and real-life commitments, we needed to be able to come back for a week roughly once a month. Apart from those return trips, we planned to sail in warm places from November to May, and spend June to October at home in Montreal and the Laurentians.

Now, all we needed was a boat.

A Fateful Utterance

It all started, for me at least, in a place called Banyuls-sur-mer on France’s Mediterranean coast. I was on a two-week holiday, in October 2007, with my old friend and new boyfriend Willie. He asked if I’d mind wandering through the marina. I know he has a long history of sailing. He lived in Bermuda for more than 20 years. He built a boat, owned a couple more, crewed in races, helped sail boats from abroad back to the island. So, of course, I didn’t mind.

We pottered along the docks and I was given a running commentary on rigs (“That one’s a fractional because…”) and types (“The differences between a ketch and a yawl are…”). I was astonished at how very little I knew on the subject. We approached one lovely looking boat. Willie knew what sort is was, and far too much about its class and abilities. As we walked by, I looked in through the lighted cabin’s window. I was astonished to see a cozy nook of polished wood, with a book-lined shelf, a glass of wine on the salon table, a television glowing in a corner. Not at all what I had expected. (My vision was more along the lines of whitewashed raw lumber ribs and planks, an impossibly low ceiling, and perhaps Nelson dying in a cramped cranny somewhere.) As I was being given a dissertation on her lines, her qualities and her rig, out popped her occupant.

Dressed in jeans and one of those classic French sailor’s shirts with the horizontal white and black lines, the gentleman in question turned out to be a handsome 30-something fellow who, not long before, had purchased the boat, given up his mundane landlocked life and planned never to return. He chatted with us for a bit…well, with Willie, whose knowledge of boats, boating and his particular boat unlocked depths of passion for the life afloat. After saying farewell, we continued our explorations and I uttered the fateful words, “I could do that.”

“You could?” asked Willie, with something closely approximating utter disbelief. It has long been a dream of his to do just that.

“Sure,” I said, little realizing what a whirligig I was setting aspin.